


Angel Is A Centerfold

by 3amepiphany



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Food Issues, M/M, Other, Weight Issues, an egregious use of ABBA, i probably forgot to tag some people, i totally did, i was recently asked to tag for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3amepiphany/pseuds/3amepiphany
Summary: “It’s a bit overwhelming, the thought of it, yes? A little stressful. Am I lean enough; what is that there, will that be seen? Am I too hairy? Like being in front of a lover for the first time. Suddenly, you think, oh, no.”





	Angel Is A Centerfold

**Author's Note:**

> I missed my deadline of trying to have this out by the time ESPN's The Body Issue hit stands. But oh well. Anyways. Many, many thanks to my beta reader Elliot, to my beautiful friend Samy (thank you for enabling me and being my Stars On Ice partner, love) who does incredible art and can be found on twitter at samygeefox, and to a huge part of my inspiration for this story, Wai, who does amazing Yuri!!! On Ice comics and much more, and can be found on twitter at belugachop.
> 
> Lord, this was much longer than I anticipated. But hell, I love it. I hope you do, too. If you find any errors just please god don't tell me about them. Augh.

“Ridiculous. I broke records this year. I’m headed straight for the Olympics and there is no stopping me and it’s absolutely stupid that I’m unable to participate in this. I need better PR. I’m calling Yakov. This is stupid. This is so STUPID. I don’t understand. Mila got an invite. Why didn’t I?”

Yuri slammed the door open and hustled right past Victor, who was fresh out of the hot baths and ready to join the Yuris for dinner and to discuss some off-season plans. But as the youth passed him, hollering in a rash mix of English and Russian, he looked over at Yuuri, who was sat there at the table with a letter in his hands and a nervous look on his face. He gave Victor a glance before quickly folding the letter back up and sitting on it, trying to compose himself and fidgeting about the table because there wasn’t more than sake to busy himself with drinking. “What did you and Mila get invited to that our dear kitten didn’t?” Victor asked him casually, sitting down at the table cross-legged in his fuzzy pajama pants. His hair was still a little damp but strands were beginning to fall away from its slicked-back position as they’d dried. He fixed a gentle stare on Yuuri with his gorgeously ice-blue eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was like something out of a spoon-fed romance film.

Yuuri stared back at him for a few moments, just taking in this beautiful sight before his internal panic welled up within and threatened to bubble out of him in the form of the full answer to Victor’s question. He could never actually gauge if he was getting better at resisting this ploy because there seemed to be so many variations of its intensity. He figured this was about mid-scale. Easy, but he’d better be careful. “An invite.”

“Sure. Is it to a party?” the older skater asked, reaching for the sake.

Before he could grab the bottle, Yuuri snagged it with a small wave and poured him a cup. “Not quite. It’s a gathering of sorts, but not one I plan on going to.”

“Afraid you’ll wind up half-nude and dancing again even if it isn’t a party?”

“Something like that,” Yuuri said quietly. Then louder, “My sister should be bringing dinner by in a moment. How was your bath?”

“Excellent, though I may need your help later - there’s a tough little spot that I can’t quite work out,” he replied, leaning over the corner of the low table to purr this at Yuuri. “It’s just over my hip and in the small of my back.”

Yuuri, bent at a bit of an angle to avoid the awkward advance, murmured, “You old pervert.”

“I’ll need someone with a strong arm... or a leg,” Victor said, completely ignoring the ‘old’ comment and giving Yuuri just enough of a shove to knock him over onto his side. He grabbed the leg that Yuuri flailed out in his fall and held it up and out in a long stretch, sending the house slipper on that foot flying. “Let’s see this invite, hm?”

He reached for the letter amidst Yuuri’s indignant squirming and whining, complaining that he was Yuuri’s coach and Yuri’s mentor and therefore he really ought to see what it was that was being turned down just in case it was something that shouldn’t be and that he was also concerned about what it was that Yuri hadn’t been chosen to participate in and how much that could reflect upon him and Yakov, and, and, and-- when suddenly the door to the room slid open, and Mari entered with a tray of dishes and a calm smile.

Behind her was Yuri, sullen and red in the face, and the two of them paused midstep as Yuuri and Victor wrestled about on the floor. After a realizing that they were fighting over something and not actually doing anything indecent, Mari moved aside to let Yuri in so he could sit down. Very gracefully she set down their dishes and a few bowls of rice, and gave the sake bottle a discerning check before leaving a second, then standing there with the tray folded against her chest and a courier envelope held out for Victor, pointedly ignoring the wrestling match happening on the floor. Yuuri squawked as Victor succeeded in retrieving the letter.

Yuri gave a sharp yell. “HEY. Have some damned decency!”

Victor pushed himself up a bit, the letter in his hand. “Oh! My apologies.”

Yuuri reached up to grab the letter, but Victor pulled it away a few inches. He was basically planked out directly over him, his shirt and robe hanging, but shit, his arms were so stupidly long!

“This came for you today, Vicchan,” Mari said.

He looked at the presented envelope curiously for a moment before sitting all the way up and off of Yuuri, and thanked her as she handed it over. Yuuri sat up quickly and straightened his glasses and leaned in to try to get his letter back. Victor sat on it to keep him from it, and opened the big flat envelope, which had been addressed to him in Yakov’s handwriting and covered in customs stamps. In need of a bit of a rest after the tussle Yuuri settled for leaning in to see what Victor’s mail consisted of. Deep down he hoped it wasn’t the same thing he’d received, but even deeper down he knew it likely was.

Inside was a folded note from his coach that said simply, “Los Angeles.” He also pulled out a smaller sealed envelope that had originally been mailed to his training rink from the all-too familiar American publication that bridged the gaps where Yakov’s note was concerned. “Ahh, ha,” Victor sighed, laughing a bit. The other three waited patiently for him to open it - Yuri skulking about it, Mari trying not to appear too interested, and Yuuri, now possibly redder in the face than Yuri. Deftly, the little envelope was opened and the letter unfurled and Victor gave a smile as he read it quietly, leaning his face against his hand and then murmuring, “This is very kind of them… It looks like we’ll need to change a few things in our schedule - I’m wanted in Los Angeles for a week or so.”

Yuri looked around the room blankly. Mari asked what the occasion was - an exhibition?

“I’ve been asked to participate in ESPN’S Body Issue.”

Mari smiled politely, but her brother could see very plainly that she was ready to break into a grin that would frighten off a pack of demons.

Yuri chuffed and dug into his meal, and then said around a mouth full of chicken and broccoli, “Getting nude and shooting some artsy photos is basically all any magazine wants them for.”

“Oh, sure. But it’s ESPN, so I imagine it won’t be lewd?” she ventured.

“It won’t, but it’s still softcore pornography in a way. It’s why I’m not invited but Mila is. And Yuuri.”

Yuuri had taken a big bite of rice so he wouldn’t feel obligated to provide a response just yet, but when Yuri mentioned him he had a coughing fit and was certain he’d just shot a few grains of rice up and into his nose in his surprise and embarrassment. Victor asked him if he was alright. He waved it off and after swallowing and composing himself he reminded Victor that he was sitting on Yuuri’s own invite to appear in the issue.

“Oh is _that_ what it is?” Victor’s eyes gleamed at him excitedly.

“That’s great!” exclaimed Mari. “It really can’t be worse than those party photos Chris has saved. Right? There’s still that fairly in-depth article about what and who they’re presenting. It’ll be good exposure.”

Victor stifled a laugh as Yuri choked on his own food for a moment. As he sputtered and gulped at his water, Victor pulled out the letter he’d been sitting on, and looked it over. It was basically the same in format, though it asked for Yuuri. Well. At least this could be less of a debacle than the last time this had happened, he thought. But then it occurred to him. “You’re not accepting?”

 “Yuuri, what? You’re turning it down?” Mari asked, about as shocked as her brother had ever seen her. He waited for her to offer her usual “We’ll support you no matter what your choice” mantra but that didn’t come.

“I turn down a lot of article requests - Celestino didn’t like it but the trade-off was the ones that I did decide to do are… ones I felt comfortable doing. Which. Wasn’t many.”

“So do it. Who is going to expect you in The Body Issue? There’s that element of surprise. Eh? Come and do this with me.”

“Mari was very surprised that I wasn't doing it just now. I think that fits the need,” Yuuri replied to Victor, floundering a bit and already feeling like he ought to just shrink up inside his nightshirt and disappear.

Then she agreed loudly, “It makes sense though - if it makes you uncomfortable then you shouldn’t have to do it unless you absolutely want to. Either way, as exciting as that is, you know we’re here for you whatever you decide, Yuuri.”

He gave her a big smile. There it was, and that was really all that needed to be said. They always were there for him, his family. Even if it was just quiet time alone, they did what they could to provide that for him. Except nowadays, when it came to having Victor around - him they really couldn’t stop, but they also seemed to understand that the two of them had their own ways of communicating and working things out.

Mari gave Victor a sideways glance and big smile of her own and excused herself. After the door closed behind her, Victor and Yuri both turned to Yuuri, who was trying to make himself a little smaller, letting the steam from his food fog up his glasses. This really wasn’t something he’d ever considered because he’d never been made the offer before - it just wasn’t really something that sold as big in Japan as it did in the United States. And he remembered how big the response was when another magazine’s swimsuit special picked up Chris and Victor for an appearance alongside some other prevalent athletes at the time, even if Victor had wound up only giving an interview. Those issues were still sitting in a box of belongings he’d had sent home and thankfully one his parents didn’t unpack for him knowing he was on his way back from Detroit shortly after, and was also very thankfully hanging out safely in his closet under another box that he’d hastily filled with all of his other Victor memorabilia that had gotten hastily packed up and hidden when the man had shown up in person.

Yuri groused about his age loudly again and turned back to his dinner.

It was midway through his meal when Victor said quietly that regardless of whether or not Yuuri was going to accept ESPN’s offer, that he’d like for him to join him in L.A. anyways - he didn’t want to break out an old program, nor did he have time to choreograph anything new what with Lilia and Yakov already pushing new work on him for his return. He also wanted to see if they could up the difficulty of the lifts now that they were comfortable.

“Is our Yurio going to be okay on his own for a week?”

“There’s no way you’re sending me back to Yakov and Lilia early,” Yuri said, his nostrils flaring a bit.

“I was actually thinking of suggesting that you train in Almaty with Altin until Yuri and I are due in St. Petersburg. You two got along very famously. I was only thinking of it, though.”

“Victor,” Yuuri started.

“It’s not going to be a vacation,” Victor continued. “We’ll be doing photoshoots, and when we’re not, we’ll be doing interviews. And when those aren’t happening we’ll be training. Or at the hotel. And if any sight-seeing is done, it’s going to be as a group--”

“But Victor, Otabek and Chris got inquiries as well. At least, that’s what Leo’s just told me.” Yuuri handed him his phone so Victor could read the messages - it seemed that Leo was hoping to organize a small charity exhibition while several of his friends and fellow competitors were in town for the shoots. Nothing fancy - no awards or accolades - just a day where they could all get out on the ice and have some fun and make some fans happy, because not everyone had gotten an invite, but he and his club could make up for that, easy.

And… would Plisetsky come? Otabek wasn’t sure if he should ask, but Leo said he would.

“Tell Leo I’m coming as well, but if anyone even so much as mentions a dance contest while I’m there I’m taking the next flight back to St. Petersburg,” Yuri said without prompt, as if he’d been receiving the same texts.

Yuri of course, wasn’t, and Yuuri could see Victor thinking, and thinking about this in a very determined manner. He would make this work. Then, after some time, Victor said aloud, “Well maybe it’s not a bad idea at all. Me there, you there, Mila there. Yakov might decide to come as well just to make sure we’re taking care of you properly. Then, boom, Lilia gets you back in time to whip you back into shape because we’ve been feeding you too many carbs and rich, fatty fish here.”

“Rude.”

“You know she’s going to say it.”

Yuri did not respond, taking a huge bite of rice instead and chewing defiantly.

Later on, Yuuri put his phone and his glasses on the nightstand, and rolled over from his back onto his side in bed to fix Victor with a quiet stare. The Russian was on his phone browsing things to do in the downtown L.A. area.

“Victor,” he said quietly, hoping that the face he was making was stern enough to convey his concern.

Victor turned to look at him for a moment, giving him a soft smile. “Yes my cutlet - time for bed? You can turn the light out, I’ll finish up here in just a moment.”

“Victor, I’m declining the shoot.”

“You can still do the interview,” was the reply, in the coach voice.

“I can. I’d like to do that.”

“It will be like the time I was asked to do a swimsuit shoot for… not. ESPN. Uhm. Sports Illustrated? Sports Illustrated. You can decline the shoot but they’ll usually be happy to know that you’re interested in an interview.” And then Victor’s soft smile twisted into a big grin. “What am I saying? I know you know which one I’m talking about.”

Yuuri could feel his face turning red. Suddenly, Victor had leaned over and snapped a quick selfie. He uploaded it to Instagram moments later, tagging him in it and using the caption - “See You Soon, California”. Yuuri groaned, knowing full well he probably looked terrible in it.

Moments later, Chris had commented, “It’s Milan PT 2: Malibu Boogaloo ;)”

They’d be close to the beach, where the sports center was located, but there’d be little opportunity for them to spend time there during their trip. And when they finally arrived after a taxing flight, L.A. was hot, even in the late evening, but welcoming still. LAX was just as busy as any other major airport they’d been through, though this time they were met at the terminal by ESPN’s chauffeur service, who took them to their hotel. Once checked in, Victor took the liberty of skipping towards the bed and throwing himself onto it, as he always did in hotels. Yuuri immediately got to work unpacking and getting his garment bags and gear organized. The door to the adjoining room opened and Yuri peeked in to announce that Otabek’s flight was delayed, but that he’d be in a few hours later, without his coach unfortunately. He had also been placed by the magazine at a different hotel and was trying to change that. Yuri asked if he couldn’t, would it be okay if he just stayed over here with them anyways?

“Ask your mother, Yurio,” Yuuri told him as he unzipped his toiletries bag on the edge of the bed and dug around for his bottle of eye drops.

“I don’t know, honey, ask your father,” Victor said a moment later, reaching for Yuuri’s glasses as soon as he’d placed them down.

“I hate you both.”

“Oh, Yuri. I don’t think it will be a problem. Just. You know. No drinking, no smoking, use protection, mind the noise curfew.”

“Victor,” complained Yuuri.

“They’re old enough to know but sometimes it’s good to have the reminder. Also it’s just fun to watch his face turn pink.”

And it did.

The two of them turned in early, intent on tackling their jet lag head-on as they’d just lost sixteen hours, with two-thirds of that gone to travel time and watching musicals on Victor’s tablet, but Yuri stayed up watching tv in his room for a while, and had just started to doze off when Otabek texted him to let him know he’d landed - and that he’d be arriving at the hotel shortly if he was still up. They went to bed almost instantaneously; Otabek barely had the wherewithal to settle his baggage in the corner, lay his jacket across the back of one of the chairs and take his boots off before crawling onto the bed. Yuri forgot to set the tv’s sleep timer function.

They got a good few hours in before getting up to shower, as there was a surprise in store but an appointment to keep to see it.

“I saw this place online and thought you would enjoy visiting it.” Otabek helped him out of the taxi car, backpack and all, and gestured at the little storefront after the taxi had sped off leaving them to their early morning get-together. The cats caught Yuri’s attention immediately, waking him up a bit more and. There were five of them perched on on a countertop running the length of the window, watching him curiously, their tails twitching. A sixth one was sleeping, curled up and smushed against the glass. “It’s a cat cafe, We can have coffee or tea, and play with the cats.”

Yuri felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

Victor.

“Have fun,” was all it said. He’d left the hotel pretty early, but he hadn’t checked to see if the other two were up yet. In response he took a photo of the storefront, and sent it, and suddenly remembered that he ought to wait to upload anything to his social media for the week lest he gather a crowd out and away from the rink. The Angels had eyes everywhere, and ways to find him. This would take some effort.

Otabek held the door open for him, and they were greeted by staff warmly. As the reservation was checked, Yuri watched as cats gathered on the other side of another glass door, where the cafe was, as well as seating and cat towers. “It’s like an air-lock,” he mused aloud.

“A cat-lock,” Otabek said, and the staff laughed and agreed. There was some excitement in explaining the rules of the cafe, as well as the reminder that the cats inside were all up for adoption. Yuri was very sad to say they couldn’t possibly take home a new friend for Potya but he offered to post photos on his instagram later on for local fans who might want to help or adopt, and graciously took a few brochures and cards to hand out at the exhibition in a few days. They had their drink orders taken there at the counter, and then they were ushered into the partitioned room. To Yuri’s joy, every cat standing at the doorway meowed at them loudly and in anticipation of being pet and played with, and it took every ounce of his strength not to break the rules and pick them all up.

They could, however, allow the cats to climb into their laps, so once they were settled on a soft couch that formed a sort of booth in the corner, he was very pleased to suddenly have three cats in his face and another laying right down on him. He watched Otabek scritch and rub at the face of a cat who jumped up on the table to meet him. It was an absolute oasis. Yuri let himself relax, sinking into the plush cushion of the couch and watching the street traffic outside, just beyond the cats still sitting on the counter-top. He looked carefully at each cat that graced him, trying to see the names printed on their tags and collars, and trying to memorize each one. When their drinks came, their server reminded them gently to keep the lids on the cups, and asked how they were faring. She listened carefully, and apologized for her curiosity in where they were from - she liked their accents. Without much thought, as he liked her immediately, Yuri told her what they were in town for and she seemed really impressed, but respectfully reserved. Otabek thanked her for being patient with them, and she simply said that she had plenty of family who were learning English as a second, third or even fourth language. Plus, this was Los Angeles, and there were lots of different people and stories here.

“I’m Samy,” she said with a big smile that complimented her heart-shaped face and dark hair, pushing her glasses up along her nose a bit. “If you need anything I’ll be at the cafe counter on the other side of that partition. You can let the atrium staff know you need to speak with me and they’ll help you get out of the room without causing a cat stampede.”

They played with the cats in silence for a few minutes before Otabek said, “I have reservations here for every morning this week, if that’s something you would like to do. Most of my practices are late afternoon. Except the day of my shoot and today - I have nothing planned today. I’m waiting to see if my coach will make it in or if they’re still having issues with his visa renewal.”

“Not a good start to something like this, is it? I don’t have anything happening until Yakov comes in with Mila. They had to wait a day and she’ll be staying an extra day, too, for her shoot. I told Victor and Katsudon that I’d meet them at the rink this evening though, to get in that first practice with Leo and J.J. but they’re doing their own thing this week otherwise.”

“The magazine stuff.”

He nodded. “I think it’s just Victor doing it at the moment, but he’s trying to talk Yuuri into doing it as well. I can’t imagine throwing away an opportunity like that, but, whatever.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that. Yuuri said you seemed upset. I’m sorry for not asking you directly if you were coming along.”

He was going to say something that may have been read for rude too easily, but stopped himself as a cat headbutted him under his chin. Then he said, “I’m not mad at you for it, or anyone, really. I think it’s fucking cool. It’s just. Damn.”

They were quite for a while after this, petting the cats as they pounced and pranced and purred, and watching other patrons arrive for their visits to the cafe. Finally, Otabek said, “I’d be happy to ask them to allow you to come along with me but they likely may not let you on set during the shoot. But it would certainly be great to have your support there.”

“Nervous?”

“A little. Yes. I can admit that. I’m sure after a day of rest I can get down to work and it won’t be an issue when it’s time to do it.”

Earlier that morning, Yuuri let himself wake up naturally, and in rolling over to check the time he was pleased to see that it was just around 5AM. The clock blinked at him as he lay there listening to Victor breathe deeply and slowly, and he spent a few minutes trying to remember what floor the entrance to the fitness room was on.

When he arrived, he wasn’t the only one in there; an older gentleman was using one of the elliptical machines and had, of all channels, ESPN on the courtesy television. There was a news segment on that talked about the current hockey playoffs that were occurring, followed by a story announcement that startled Yuuri slightly - that the athletes for the annual ESPN Body Issue had been selected. Twenty-eight athletes would receive feature articles and full online photo galleries while at least another dozen would be included in individual interviews or photos. They weren’t providing names just yet, thankfully, but did say the magazine could be expected at the end of June. He felt a bit of excitement at being reminded that he’d get to see Phichit again in person later on, but that feeling was quickly followed by a small wave of frustration about this magazine business. He told himself it could wait until Phichit could listen and offer him some input, and settled into step on one of the treadmills, headphones in now and ESPN tuned out for the time being, thinking about nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other and not the twinge of hunger in his stomach.

After some time, a waving hand entered his field of vision and he took his headphones out and slowed to a stop. It was the older gentleman, asking him if he’d like to keep the television on as he was leaving. He figured it wouldn’t hurt, and told him it would be fine.

“By the way, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but notice that you were in an ESPN news segment a bit ago.”

“Sorry?” Yuuri asked, confused and suddenly very worried.

“On the Olympic segment,” he said, pointing at the television, which was now showing snowboarding. “Though now I’m not sure if you were watching. I’m sorry. Congratulations - you really make it look effortless, but I imagine it’s not at all. You’re also very well-spoken. You’ve got to love your sport a lot.”

“Oh. Oh, thank you. I do. There are still some competitions to win, but I will do my best.”

The man held out a hand to shake his and told him to be proud of his accomplishments so far. “They’ll carry you onwards to the next ones.”

“Thank you, very much,” he replied with a wide smile and a small bow. He finished his run with a lighter step, and upon returning to the hotel room, he was surprised to still see Victor in bed, sprawled out and tangled in the sheets. Quietly, he took a moment to peruse the room service menu before he undressed to jump in the shower.

A startled squawk that sounded like a cat being stepped on escaped his mouth as he suddenly felt Victor’s arms around his bare torso. His shirt was still somewhat in the process of being pulled over his head, so his arms got caught and he flailed helplessly.

“That room service is quick, I can’t believe my breakfast is already here,” said Victor with a bit of a laugh as Yuuri squirmed and whined a bit. He murmured around the spot where he thought Yuuri’s ear might be, “I’m sorry, I’m just really hungry.”

Yuuri stopped flailing for a moment and said, “You ordered room service without me?” It was muffled, and really very sad. He had been looking forward to a plate of crispy and slightly chewy American bacon, alongside an omelette. The hotel menu showed one in the French style, though if he’d gotten one of the half-moon, American diner-style ones, he would have been alright with that as well. He really just craved eggs, and cheese, and bacon, and he had just run extra distance to make sure he could have that many calories.

“Yes, and I only ordered you a bowl of fruit,” Victor replied, with the flair of a cartoonish villain, and dragged the very tips of his fingers along his lover’s sides and laughed.

“Victor, please,” he whined, wriggling. “That’s really mean. That’s hurtful.” He half expected him to call him piggy next. He knew it was coming.

“Oh, love.” Victor deftly wrestled him out of his shirt. “My love, I’m sorry, forgive me. I haven’t ordered. That was a very terrible joke, I’m sorry.”

Aware that his hair was sticking up and out and on end, Yuuri looked at him, a little surprised. “...Good - I was going to wait until you were awake to order, but now that you are, I’m going to go shower, and you can call down. Please, if you’d order me a substantial meal? Bacon. Omelette. Fruit is fine also.”

“Yuuri, of course. I’m sorry. Go shower and when you are done let me rub your legs down.”

He shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him before he realized he hadn’t grabbed his clothing for the day, so when he’d finished, he walked out in a towel. From the bed, Victor gave him a wolf-whistle, and said they had about forty minutes before their breakfast arrived, if he wanted to put in a little time to practice their choreography. “For the exhibition finale, you little pervert,” Victor whined when Yuuri gave him a stern look. Instead of immediately getting dressed however, Yuuri flopped onto the bed, slipping his glasses back on. Victor pulled them off again, though, and leaned in close. “Just kidding, _I_ was being the pervert. I made sure to order bacon.”

“Delicious, thank you. I just ran six miles. I’ll need it. What did you do? Wait until you heard the water shut off to order it?”

“No! It was a few minutes before that. And... I asked them to bring it around in an hour. Content with just breaking even?” Victor said, slowly swinging a leg over Yuuri’s crossed ones, and placing a hand over where the towel was tucked in over itself.

“Oh, I don’t know. Another mile right sounds fantastic right now, if you’re not going to give me that massage,” he replied quietly, guard still up.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop. ...Please just have sex with me--”

“Thank you!” Yuuri said, cutting him off, exasperated but a smile making its way across his face. “Yes, okay, I will.” He shuffled around some to take his towel off and Victor straddled his hips, taking his own shirt off and then leaning down to give Yuuri excited, greedy kisses. After a few moments, though, Yuuri leaned his head to the side, breathing heavily. “W-wait, wait. Is the door to the other room locked? Are they here?”

“No, and no, they left while you were downstairs… but the first one I can fix.” Victor got up quickly, first checking the door and locking it. Then he disappeared into the bathroom and came back out, dancing awkwardly as he stripped his underwear off and tossed both their bottle of lube and a condom on the bed before landing on the soft duvet himself. “Listen, I was thinking,” he said as Yuuri leaned over to find and then place his glasses on the nightstand. His hand followed, and he raked his fingers down Yuuri’s backside, fingers already teasing at him.

Yuuri wiggled a bit, and complained about his glasses before settling back down on the pillows and the towel.

“I thought, why don’t we ask to do our shoot together? We could have a nice double-page spread.” Victor emphasized this by putting his hands behind Yuuri’s knees and hiking his legs up a bit, spreading them and then leaning forward to pepper the insides of his thighs with kisses, and a nibble that made him squirm. “If not the cover, that would be nice. We could give them an exclusive interview about our wedding plans.”

“What wedding plans?” Yuuri asked, and then grabbed at the duvet with another awkward sound as Victor avoided the question for the moment, burying his face in Yuuri’s hair and kissing and breathing on his cock. His breath was hot and oddly cool in spots, and Yuuri realized he was still a bit shower-damp. It felt astounding. And suddenly then there was the hot press of his tongue here and there, between kisses. As Victor’s tongue swiped at the head of his cock, Yuuri shifted his hips, rocking them up a bit as his whole midsection twitched and seemed to pull inwards on itself. He was getting hard, quick. After a bit, Victor brought a hand down from gently squeezing and rubbing at his thighs, and started rubbing at his balls. “Victor,” he huffed quietly. “ _Victor_ ” There was a soft hum against the base of his penis. Yuuri exhaled heavily, pretty sure that short, inquiring little hum had his whole spine vibrating as if he were some sort of tuning fork. “V-Victor, what wedding plans? We’ve not even started on that yet.”

“We can lie,” said Victor, straightening up from where he knelt, pulling one hand away to fondle at himself. He was already there, and Yuuri watched him, licking his lips and stretching out the leg Victor was still holding and rubbing at with his other hand. “I lie in interviews all the time. No one cares.”

“Um. Excuse me?” Yuuri said with a laugh.

“Except you.”

He took his other leg and brought his knee up to his chest, and with his free hand started rubbing where Victor had left off. “You’re lying right now, you can’t lie to me. I know all about you. You’ve never lied in an interview.”

“We’re getting married in Skopelos,” Victor started, “In the summer.” He set Yuuri’s leg down against the crook of his shoulder and neck, ignoring Yuuri asking him to repeat where and feeling himself up and along his own stomach and chest, then brushing his silvery hair back out of his face. It fell down again, and he grinned, wickedly. As he grabbed and started to open the condom packet he said, “There’s a church I saw in a movie, at the top of a little hill. Agios Ioannis Kastri. I will carry my love Yuuri Katsuki up each of those many, perilous steps to the church.” Then Yuuri heard the soft pop of the cap of the bottle of lube.

“I wasn’t involved in this decision.”

Victor poured a little of the lube out onto Yuuri’s hand, and then some into his own cupped hand, and said, “It was Yuuri’s idea. One hundred percent.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The younger man sighed and spread the lube around a bit, playing at his hole and moaning when Victor took his cock in his slick hand and started squeezing gently, stroking him up and down a bit. He pressed his head back against the pillows, pulled his knee back a bit more, and went in with two fingers, eagerly.

“He told me, ‘Victor, my love,’” Victor murmured in his best (worst) impersonation of Yuuri, and Yuuri laughed again, quietly, “Victor, this is so romantic, I want a four-tiered cake gilded with gold, and all the ouzo I can drink, and a pole I can dance on-’”

“Stop, wow.”

“‘-and I want you to sing to me.’ And I asked him, Yuuri, my sweet, moy sladkiy, of course I’ll sing for you here on this beautiful little island church overlooking the sea. What do you want me to sing?”

Yuuri looked at him again, smiling as Victor played with both of their cocks now in each of his hands. He felt comfortable enough to work in a third finger, and Victor turned his head to kiss at Yuuri’s leg. “You can’t lie in an interview,” Yuuri told him. “I’d want metaxa.”

“We’ll serve metaxa, all the metaxa he can drink until he’s pole-dancing. And we’ll eat so much grilled seafood,” and he went on like this for a bit, describing some stupendous ceremony as Yuuri worked at himself, breathing heavily and wriggling his hips against both of their hands. Finally he nodded and muttered that he was ready, pulling his hand away, and to his surprise yet again, Victor put his leg down and wrapped his arms under him; he picked him up and rolled them over, and then pushed him back upwards - Yuuri sat on top of him now, putting his arms out to steady himself against the headboard as they shuffled about, Victor’s cock between his legs and pressing against him as the older man took it in hand to guide it into him. “And when we reach the top of the hill I’ll still have to sing, you know, but I’ll do it,” he said with a soft sigh, playing there, teasing.

Yuuri let his head hang a bit before looking up a bit to use his arm to sweep his hair off of his forehead. And that’s when it caught his vision - the stretch marks along the underside of his bicep. He felt his stomach drop. God, he’d just about forgotten these. Victor pushed up, distracting him suddenly, and he pressed his hips down, almost reflexively and he had to take pause, coming up on his knees some instead.

Victor’s free hand caressed his hip and thigh, waiting for him to settle. “Okay?” he looked up at Yuuri and asked, his eyes that dark, dark grey, almost blue but not quite, watching him happily.

“Uhm. Yes… are you?”

Victor nodded, squeezing at his thigh. Yuuri tried not to panic, and came back down, saying, “...What are you singing to me? What song did I pick?”

Underneath him, the Russian smirked, and started softly, at the same time working the head of his cock into Yuuri’s hole. “Love me or leave me, make your choice, but believe me, I love you-”

And Yuuri laughed, hard, but then it became more of a breathy groan as he felt Victor’s girth slide in. He lowered himself down, choking out a surprisingly on-key “I do I do, I do, I do, I do,” that went a bit sour on the last note as Victor rocked his hips up to meet him completely, setting off a bright light and some fireworks behind his eyelids as he screwed his eyes shut.

That afternoon, they met with Yuri and Otabek, who had unsurprisingly found a motorcycle rental after leaving the cat cafe, and spent some time perusing the stock at Amoeba Music along Sunset. After leaving Otabek’s spoils from the store at the hotel, they’d grabbed their gear and a late lunch, and were ready to hit the ice. Yuri was unsurprised to see Victor warming up along the boards decked out in a holey, vintage Mickey Mouse shirt over his tracksuit pants. He complained - “You’re getting lazy.”

“I’m feeling very California,” he replied coolly, pointing out Yuri’s torn skinny jeans, and then pointing out the horde of girls in the stands wearing cat ears. “Your Angels are going to love when those seams split.”

Before Yuri could respond, Victor revealed dramatically that they were the tearaway track pants, revealing a pair of track shorts that barely came to the hem of the shirt. He clipped his fringe back, took his blade guards off, and took to the ice, knotting the shirt up behind his back. “Fucking weirdo,” Yuri said, sitting down on an open bench to put his blades on.

In one of the training rooms that was open for them to use, Yuuri had found a scale, and was standing on it in his boxer briefs, carefully doing some math in his head. Otabek passed him, carrying his gear bag with the intent to change into something a bit more practice friendly than jeans and leather, and they exchanged a greeting. The Japanese skater stopped himself just as he was stepping off the scale, and got back on to get the reading one last time. As he went back to his duffel bag to put on his own practice clothes he planned dinner, studying the wrapper of a protein bar he’d pulled out to eat and setting it aside for the moment. After he laced his skates up and tested them out, he opened the snack and ate it slowly, waving at Otabek as the younger man passed back by on his way out to the rink with skates in one hand and gear bag in the other.

The protein bar was a little dry, but not as disappointing as he thought it’d be by the time he finished it, walking out to the rink. He set his water bottle down, put his gloves on and took his guards off. His back was sore, and he hoped he could work the kink in his hip out with some dancing and laps.

Phichit slammed into him with a hug the moment he cleared the entrance.

“Yuuri!” he said, and Yuuri felt his arms tighten around him. There was some hesitation in it from Phichit as well, as if he noticed something was off. “...I’ve missed you.”

“Phichit, we talked yesterday before our flight,” Yuuri teased him. “But yes, I’ve missed you, too. Wanna lap?”

“Do I!”

Leo and J.J. arrived and surveyed their first wave of performers, rocking about on their blades quietly and waiting for everyone to get warmed up before starting the session, calling them in for a huddle along the boards.

“Phichit guessed the music he same night we started sending out the choreo clips,” J.J. addressed them, and they could hear Celestino trying not to laugh as he leaned along the railing. “So, Phichit, steal Leo’s thunder and let us know what we’ve got planned.”

“It’s ABBA!” Phichit said, excitedly, and probably filming all of this on his phone to catch everyone’s reactions to share on instagram later.

“I hope everyone likes medleys,” Leo added amidst the chatter.

Yuuri looked over at Victor, who shrugged, loose strands of his fringe waving about. He exhaled, puffing out his cheeks a bit and stretching his back some more, a hand on his hips and the other pushing his glasses up along the bridge of his nose.

After practice, Yuuri decided to go back to the hotel for his third shower that day - Victor went with Yuri and Otabek to meet Yakov and Mila at the airport. He called room service and sat about checking social media instead of flipping through the television channels for something to watch. There on Instagram was a video from Phichit. “Wait til you see us on the ice, Los Angeles - you’ll be dancing too!” he’d captioned it, and in the video, he was spinning his phone around as everyone was cheering. Yuuri could see himself in the back, a slightly horrified look on his face. It was quick and he wondered if anyone else would notice. He scoured the comments - nothing. Thank goodness.

His dinner was delivered, and a short time later there was a knock on the door, but not the main one to their room - it was the door leading into Yuri’s room. Yuuri stood up from the loveseat, setting his plate on the table and shuffling over to answer it, fully expecting Yuri but meeting Mila unexpectedly. His surprised gaze shifted upward quickly, and her graceful smile coaxed a big grin out of him in return with little effort. There was also the distinct smell of food. Hot, delicious food.

“Katsuki,” she said happily. “Vitya said you’d be here, and I am glad you are! Hello!”

He stepped back to give her bow in greeting but she took him into a hug before he could, and she pretty much lifted him off the floor doing it. Behind her, Otabek walked past, hands full of napkins and paper plates, gear bag still on his back and his and Yuri’s motorcycle helmets hanging from an arm by the chinstraps.

“Where is Victor?” Yuuri asked as she let him go and ruffled his hair, watching as Yuri set a full ice bucket down on the floor and cracked open a big bottle of soda.

“He and Yakov split off back to the rink,” Yuri said, tossing the plastic bottle cap at him. He caught it. “You’ve got extra cups over there?”

“We do.”

“I guess they needed to talk or something, about his new program, but they said not to wait up.”

There were pizza boxes on the table across the room. It smelled really, _really_ good. But there was that salad. He gave a big sigh and said, “Give me a moment, I’ll bring the cups over.” And he did. Along with his salad. Mila gave him a sad look as he settled in with them and limited himself to a cup of the soda, but no pizza.

“Still dieting?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m not pulling at seams like I was before, though.”

“I feel like that hasn’t been an issue for you lately. Compared to that viral video of yours, you’ve been looking good. On ice, too. Maintenance is good, though. I’m surprised Yakov didn’t say anything about our Yuri earlier at the airport. Vitya doesn’t seem to be riding his case as much as he is yours. When we arrived he was stuffing his little face with a hot dog.”

Around a mouthful of pizza, Yuri spat a curse word in Russian. Then he swallowed and said, “He’s not my coach.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been staying with us for the last month or two and working with him as your coach,” Yuuri said, trying not to laugh. “I feel like, if anything, you have become a black hole of sorts.”

“He _is_ taller. You’ll have to let the seams out on your outfits, soon, Yuri,” Mila laughed.

Otabek had found some reruns of an older American sitcom - _The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ \- that they decided to watch because the fashion looked ridiculously cool and had gotten Mila talking about the new piece she’d been working on for the exhibition: a very late 1980’s, early 90’s aerobics-inspired dance that used a remix of a modern pop song made to sound as if it were from that time. “‘Bang-Bang’ it’s called. There’s a lot of fancy footwork involved like The Fresh Prince here. It would be good to learn, Piroshki,” she said, obviously contemplating another slice of pizza. Otabek handed her one of the boxes, and she thanked him.

Yuri motioned at the tv this his napkin before getting up and tossing his plate. “My footwork is good. This is clownish.”

There were two slices left in the box, and one of them was an odd little piece that looked like it had been cut as an afterthought. And before Yuuri knew it, it wound up on the empty salad plate he’d placed next to himself on the floor.

“Food is fuel, Katsuki,” the red-head told him very seriously.

He looked over at Yuri, up on the bed now, and waited for him to call him ‘piggy’ and make a joke, but the boy only shrugged and said, “I agree.” On the other side of Yuri, Otabek said nothing and started in on another slice. He had, impressively, nearly consumed a whole pizza on his own by this point.

“I’d better not, but thank you,” he said, and was about to hand the plate up to Yuri to finish off the little slice, but was interrupted.

“Yuuri,” Victor groused from the doorway, setting his gear bag down. “Pizza??”

Mila sat up and responded to him harshly, and in Russian. It threw everyone in the room for a very startled loop. Yuuri honestly had no idea what she had said, but Victor didn’t have an answer. He reached up and ran a hand through his hair almost embarrassingly, obviously trying to think of something to say and instead of let a fight or the awkwardness continue, Yuuri got up, leaving his plate with the slice of pizza on the bed with Yuri and walked back through into the other room.

He closed the door behind him. He left what he hadn’t finished of his soda, too.

“The worst part about coming to the states is not being able to drink,” Yuri mumbled to Mila the next morning as they unlaced their skates, having finished a strenuous practice that Lilia was probably already critiquing via her phone on the other side of the world. He sipped at a bottled soda. It wasn’t even noon yet but to be completely honest he could have used a few more extra hours of sleep that morning, as much as he really loved being with Otabek on the bike and heading out to the cat cafe, and then to Griffin Observatory to buy passes for them to go back later when the telescopes were open for night-time viewing. And as late as they had stayed up the night before, it just. It was needed. “Maybe it’s the jet-lag. No. It’s the drinking. Drinking could fix the jet lag.”

“I’m very glad you decided to come along. It seems to be working very well for Yakov, and for Victor as well,” Mila said. “I’ll take you out for a drink when we get back to St. Petersburg.”

“Wait, drinking? I meant posing nude for a sports magazine cover. _That’s_ the worst. Not being able to do that.”

She rolled her eyes and set about to go back to the hotel, giving Victor a terrible evil eye as she passed him, standing at the boards with Christophe, who had arrived at the sports center that morning straight from the airport and with his guest in tow - his guest, who was taking some time to speak with fans gathered in the lobby and halls before joining them.

Chris had a hand up to wave to her, but he quickly made as if he was adjusting his glasses. “What is she mad about?” he asked quietly.

Yakov patted Victor on the back as he passed behind him, following Mila and on the phone with Lilia. “Probably me. I think Lilia knows I’m already thinking of changing my program,” he replied with a half-truth.

“You’re always doing that though. You’d think she’d be angrier if you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Victor said, his leather glove creaking under his chin as he leaned on his elbow. He was dressed a little more seriously today, anticipating a familiar face. Or at least guessing that he would be, by Chris’ texts and hints.

“Katsuki’s been doing so well under you, Victor,” he heard from behind him - Chris reflexively choked on his sip of water at it, and they both turned to see Stéphane approaching, his smile bright and not at all indicative of his compliment being a hard dig.

“Mon dieu, it’s you!! My Waterloo.”

“I heard ABBA and came running, you know me,” the Swiss man said, and they hugged, long and happily.

“Bullshit,” Victor said. “Here for the shoot?”

“Me? No - I’m too old for that, They don’t want to see my old hide. I hear they want to see yours, though.” They spent a few minutes catching up, and they watched Yuuri enter the rink from the opposite side after speaking with some fans in the seating. “How is your time in Hasetsu? Has Japan completely stolen you away now? Are you fluent or are you just lost in translation? Hiding away from the rest of the world?”

“It’s been lovely. Japan. It’s good. I do have to say it’s been a bit of a crunch to learn Japanese so immersively but I feel like I manage. His parents are very kind and patient when speaking with me. He and I are on par for speaking English. I want to teach him more Russian, though, before we move to St. Petersburg,” Victor mused. “And French, His French could be better.”

Stéphane hummed. “Very interesting.”

“It’s adorable hearing him repeat words for me, when I can’t recall what they are. Sometimes I feign the need.”

“Victor,” Chris said, under his breath and trying not to laugh, ”you’re a damn lush.”

Somehow Victor managed to play it with a straight face. “We’ll stand there picking produce and it will just be a babbled chorus of ‘potato’ over and over.” He said it in Japanese for them, explaining that there were two words and saying he preferred “jagaimo”, and they both laughed and started purring it back to him, teasingly, seductively. He immediately regretted this and tried to disappear into his windbreaker.

From behind them, on the bench, Yuri groused about how wrong he was in saying that the worst part about coming to the states wasn’t the drinking age, or the magazine, instead it was this scene he was watching. “There are children here,” he said, gesturing to himself.

Stéphane laughed, but then something on the ice caught his attention. “I think he’s winding up for a good one,” and they watched as Yuuri slammed a quad flip, landing a little wobbly but righting himself well enough to have completed the move fully rotated and hands out. There were murmurs and a little applause from the other attendees around the rink, and Stéphane leaned over the rail and clapped, hollering at him excitedly. Yuuri gave him a cheerful wave and then circled wide and lazily, working his knees out. To Victor, Stéphane continued in French, “That landing has gotten tighter and he’s got very good speed.”

“He learns so much quicker than I ever thought, it’s astounding to me. I’m not sure if I was underestimating him or overestimating myself. There’s little to no resistance when he’s in a jump harness, it’s all him.”

“His tenacity is back, it’s good to see. I have to say it’s still as much a mystery to us what happened.”

“Sometimes it just doesn’t pan out the way we think it will and you can’t catch up,” Victor told him, shrugging slightly. Stéphane nodded his head and shrugged in agreement, too. “There was also something lacking, I think. Not that it was anyone’s fault, or anything.”

“Confidence,” Chris said.

“Support,” Victor added. “Emotional support.”

“Jagaimo,” Stéphane said alluringly. Victor half-heartedly slapped him in the shoulder.

The three of them watched as Phichit sped up to meet Yuuri and execute a double lutz in time with him, then complete a double loop before spinning away, laughing. Yuuri chased after him and they met, hands outstretched and spinning around trying to mirror one another in a playful little dance.

Not far away from where the older skaters stood, Celestino finished up a phone call and settled against the railing in the same manner as they, content to let Phichit spend time getting comfortable and loosening up with some fun. He looked over at them and gave a nod and a wave.

Stéphane waved back excitedly. “I’ve not talked with Celestino in a while. Was he upset?”

“No, Actually. I think he knew he had to let Yuuri figure out what he needed on his own. I might be a little more difficult to work with, though, I’ll admit that.”

“Yakov,” Stéphane and Chris said at the same time.

“You guys,” Victor whined after spending a few moments looking around to see if Yakov was indeed nearby, only to realize that they were teasing him again.

“Stéphane!” As he slid over to say hello, Yuuri was offered a high-five and then a handshake and a hug, and Stéphane praised him for the quad flip he’d done - going so far as to say he might surpass Victor himself come the next season. Phichit arrived a moment later, phone in hand and asking for a selfie with Stéphane, and then one with all of them. He flitted away with the promise to talk more once he was finished with his practice, as Guang-Hong had just arrived and they were going to get straight to work on their choreography - they wanted to do a program that was full of footwork mimicking the tap-dancing in “Moses Supposes” from the musical _Singin’ In The Rain_ , and Yuuri practically knew the routine himself, he had seen Phichit practice both skaters’ portions so many times in the last couple of months. Phichit was truly doing well with this venture, and Celestino had mentioned that he might even be working with some younger pairs’ teams as early as next season. He and Yuuri gave each other a show of jazz-hands before Yuuri allowed himself to hip-check the board and lean against the railing to take a moment to check his laces. As he did, he asked, “What brings you to Los Angeles?”

“Christophe’s invite, actually. Whether I’ll perform or not I haven’t decided just yet.”

“For the exhibition?” Stéphane nodded and Yuuri seemed relieved to hear it. “I see. It should be very exciting! I hope you consider skating with us.”

“Will you and Victor be doing your pairs’ program again? I really would love to see that in person. Absolutely beautiful lifts.”

“Yes! Thank you. Provided we can get a little practice in. He and I have very interesting schedules for most of this week. It would be nice to get together with you for dinner, or lunch, perhaps, at some point, though.”

“That would be great. I’m sure we can work something out - this way I can properly congratulate you on your engagement, and Victor on his return from his little vacation.” At this, Victor watched as Yuuri went red in the face a bit, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he pushed his glasses up. “Great flip, again, by the way. You’re doing well.”

“Well, thank you,” Yuuri said. Victor asked him to lean in - he noticed Yuuri’s lips were chapped, and he degloved a hand and shuffled around in his jacket pocket for their tin of balm. But he watched as Yuuri produced a chapstick from a pocket in an instant, uncap it and apply it very deliberately, and disapparate it away again before Victor could even finish finding his tin. Yuuri then excused himself to finish up his time, thanking Stéphane again for the compliment.

“What are you two arguing about?” Chris asked Victor quietly. Victor turned to look at him, managing his surprise a bit poorly. “Boy, Milan part two, indeed, it seems. I’d better keep an eye on you lest I be the next one to curse your name. Again.”

 

* * *

>  " _Have you noticed any changes in taking a year off competitively? Is coaching as physically demanding for you, with the choreography work you’ve produced?”_
> 
> _Victor Nikiforov stirs his coffee carefully and considers the question for a good bit before saying, “There is some. It’s comparable to the period of time when one is choreographing a new routine. I still get up and practice, warm up before I do work with Plisetsky or Katsuki. I think more than anything though it’s been a needed break. There’s always the fear of a one-off injury and that can happen in competition or in practice, or even leisure, so what time I’ve spent off the ice this year has definitely shown me not… not weaknesses, but things I need to tone up, and things I need to rest so I don’t cause an injury. It’s very hard! I wanted to lay about like a cat in the sun and eat treats, you know? Bask in the joy like a vacation, as some of my peers have even called it. But I have my Yuris to think about. My dog, Makkachin. He loves to go on walks and runs, you know. Maintenance is crucial. Preventative.”_
> 
> _He is dressed in a fairly casual Dolce and Gabbana suit, not out of place amongst the ritz here on Rodeo Drive, specifically Urth Caffe, where we’re meeting for this interview this morning. He made a comment upon our arrival that we ought to do the shoot here, among the topiaries and beautiful greenery in the outdoor dining area. He is at ease and carries a certain grace that could very well cut a nice image against the landscaping. He’s been out of competition for a year now, only just recently announcing his return from a temporary retirement, and there are a lot of questions on everyone’s minds._
> 
> _The average age of professional figure skaters may be creeping up closer to the 25 year-old mark, but that is just the average. “Over your career have you noticed any changes, in how you train or in your maintenance routines?”_
> 
> _“In my age? Sure. Our joints take a beating. Our muscles take an even harder one. Not as rough as hockey. That is lot of concussive damage as you’re not just using your body as a tool to perform your work, you are weaponizing it. That expedites the natural, ah… entropy we all suffer from. We’re, on the other hand, more rough than ice dancing. They do less jumps and acrobatics, and focus on the footwork. Still, the chances of something like a torn meniscus,” he says, crossing one leg over the other and patting at his knee, referring to an injury he suffered several seasons back that caused a lot of concern, “or an over-extension, a broken ankle, a hard fall and pinched nerves, we all deal with those. Indeed, though even after recuperation from something like surgery there’s the retraining.”_
> 
> _“Sure. If not career-ending, injuries are definitely something that can impede regardless.”_
> 
> _”And you know, there’s the every-day. As I’ve gotten older I notice I pop a bit more here and there. Stiffness has been making itself friendlier with me. I may have my grace but I look at Plisetsky and think, ‘ah, to be a young and spry kitten again, able to slink about like that. To have jelly for bones again.’ It really comes into play with the choreography, and I watch as he and his coach, our lovely Yakov, they are doing their best to exploit that while he is able. I admire his tenacity greatly as both a teammate, a competitor, and his mentor, but he is very aggressive. I can’t afford to match that much longer. But as the sport progresses, so does the skill, and the expectations.”_
> 
> _“You say that with a bit of concern.”_
> 
> _“Sure. There are competitors who don’t use higher difficulty jumps in their programs simply because they don’t want to stress or damage their joints. But yet their program is still very technically balanced so they maximize their points with maneuvers instead.”_
> 
> _“Dare I mention Evan Lysacek,” I offer._
> 
> _“Exemplary point, definitely.”_
> 
> _“But you’re telling me this as someone who has four full quad jumps in his program, do you believe the sport can keep pushing competitors to do more, to risk more?”_
> 
> _“Well, hopefully we won’t have any more drastic rules changes in the near future. But who is to say the ISU to consider it again out of what they feel is a need? Seung-gil Lee set a couple of nice bars for the sport and I think, competitively, we all went with it. But as far as the Committee… they are the ones who change things, truly. Will four become the bare minimum? Who will be the first to land five quads in a program? Six? Maybe seven? Who will land the first ratified quad axel, to bring those lofty suggestions back down a bit before someone breaks their ankles…” There is a quiet moment of reflection as he sips at his coffee cup, a deep contemplation that reminds us both of how much the sport has changed during his time in competition alone. Finally, he speaks again. “Maybe I will be well into an actual fat cat retirement, laying in the sun and nursing what’s left of my poor old joints by the time we’ll see them welcoming moves we’ve christened Bonaly, Medvedeva. Vasiļjevs. Plisetsky.”_
> 
> _“Nikiforov.”_
> 
> _“Who’s that!”_

* * *

 

They spoke some about injuries and how that had affected him in the past, and then a bit more about how that could also be seen as a rising worry as the technical skills progressed as well. All in all it was a solid interview, he felt, wondering to himself if he’d ever had one on this level before. Victor posed for a few photos of himself, clothed, in case the editors wanted to use a juxtaposition or promo, then he thanked the ESPN reporter and his assistant for their time and they thanked him for his; there was a little room left in their appointment for a few selfies and some talk off-record for a bit until the magazine chauffeured the reporter’s next interviewee to the cafe, and lo and behold, Christophe popped out of the SUV, looking like a damned mafioso. Victor, to the amusement of the ESPN staff, stayed through Chris’ interview, sitting quietly aside as they snapped photos and talked.

* * *

>  " _Sensual, slippery, enthralling - some words that came to the minds of our staff as we watch you work. It seems to be an enduring trait of your programs the last few seasons. Was that your primary goal when you decided to get into figure skating?”_
> 
> _“It’s certainly what I enjoy bringing to the table, now. I was very young when my interest in sliding about on the ice began so it’s more or less something I have grown into, and that interest began with ice dancing first. I wasn’t doing severe jumps, I wasn’t flying about. Everything was very conserved because you have to work with your partner’s level of skill, too. There’s still a wide influence of that in what I do now. But when I began to build my confidence I wanted to also up my technical skill as well, and I feel that the sensuality played a big part in that for me; I leaned into it like one does a lover, I was becoming an extension of the ice. At the same time I was pushing away from ice dancing to move into singles’ competition. And for me, that was rough. I was used to dancing with another person so I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself, at least until I had been introduced to Victor Nikiforov - and I was aware of him, but getting to watch him skate in person was just a true inspiration. I knew what I wanted to do then.”_
> 
> _Swiss skater Christophe Giacometti gives us a slick smile and we find ourselves smitten. He is stunning today in his pinstripe Alferano suit, and his Versace transition glasses have finally lightened up after we’ve switched seats at our table - his eyes are too stunning to want to hide for any photos. He sips at his Italian soda, awaiting our next question. “Your work is often compared to watching a bird’s courtship dance. Is that you still hanging onto what you began with? Dancing with a partner, then no more, and now looking for a new one?”_
> 
> _“You know, that’s a lovely way of putting it. Like a peacock. I think, more or less that’s very close, but a lot of my programs are geared towards telling of a love that isn’t had, or isn’t what you thought it was. You know. When you find that right person, you really want to be the best version of you. You become aware of yourself in so many new ways. You want to prove to them that you’re worthy of them and you also find that you want to prove that to yourself, too. To say you’re capable of maturing, and here you are, mature. And you can only hope they’re paying attention and want to pay more attention to you. But it’s also sad in the sense that you know they’re not good for you in that way. Still you try. For the sake of that love, for the sake of being loved and touched with love.”_
> 
> _“Do you feel that presenting yourself in your programs in this manner sets you apart at all from other skaters? It’s a very pointed use of your body.”_
> 
> _“We see different forms of it in comparison - a quickly burning innocence in say, Yuri Plisetsky, that sort of echoes my early routines. An explorative blooming that Yuuri Katsuki does, and does very well, I’m rather jealous of that. Seung-gil Lee creates a sort of closed mysticism that you want to claw at. There’s an openness in J.J. Leroy’s work that comes from the exuberant strength of knowing oneself. I think there’s really just one other competitor who can match the performances I choose with this display of maturity in mind, and that’s Victor Nikiforov.”_
> 
> _“But his work isn’t as sexual in nature as yours.”_
> 
> _“Of course not. It could never hope to be! And you can put me saying that in print.” Giacometti leans forward and says in an over-exaggerated stage whisper, “Large print, so he can see it.”_

* * *

 

Big, golden, round eyes stared at him from the next table over. Yuri wiggled the little feathered baton at the cat, and it put a paw up to swat at it. “What kind of questions do you think they’ll ask you?”

Otabek shifted in his seat. “I don’t know. I’m really still not sure what to expect.”

“You can ask Victor. I think he’s done this one before. Or at least a few like it.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. I just can’t really defer to talking about my music and that is what I normally go to when I am asked to talk about myself. That isn’t what they’ll want to talk about.”

Yuri watched him check his phone as he said this. Nervous didn’t really seem to be the start of it, and he could feel himself itching to ask Otabek why he’d agreed to an interview on top of the shoot, but he held back. Surely it was his coach putting him up to it, telling him he needed the public relations now and that this opportunity would be stellar, especially back home. A big gray cat sleeping near the window woke up, meowed plaintively as it surveyed the playroom, and made its way over to them. It jumped into Otabek’s lap and stared at Yuri from just over the edge of the table. Quickly, he snapped a photo of this.

“...I’m training some with Josef today but… Do you think Victor would mind tomorrow??”

“Just ask, Beka," Yuri said. “I probably won’t see them again until tonight. If you don’t ask, I will.” He checked his own phone to see a pic of Christophe and Victor on his instagram feed, from Christophe. The caption read, “I’ve learned so much from this man, but today I was the one who did the schooling. #wegucci #mercialferano”

Yuuri was looking at the photo too as he took a water break, leaning against the railing for a moment, though he was seeing it sometime after it was posted. He wondered aloud if they’d be back at the rink soon, or at the hotel, and Stéphane said they ought to bring back some coffee and sandwiches for the two of them if they knew what was good for them before setting his own water aside and clapping his hands. “Ready for more?” he asked Yuuri.

He nodded. A sandwich sounded great, and he couldn’t shake the thought of food through the rest of the afternoon until he was back at the hotel.

He ordered a salad for dinner, and it arrived just as Victor was leaving to go down to the pool with Yuri and Otabek. He set the dressing aside.

The following morning saw the sports center packed with other athletes, so Yuuri and Victor had to be as cut and dry with their practice as they could be. Their shuttle from the sports center back to the hotel was off through the downtown traffic, and Victor hummed absently as he tried to arrange for some additional training time for the following day, texting with Leo and the club supervisors to try to make it happen before their scheduled photoshoots with the magazine. What a mess. Poor Otabek. It was very kind of Chris to share his training time and his coach with him that afternoon. Josef seemed very eager to help, so that was an absolute plus. Victor set his phone in his lap for a moment, rubbing at his face in mild frustration. Suddenly, Yuuri started shuffled through his pockets as his phone rang. It was Mari, calling in on FaceTime to give them an update on how Makkachin was faring and to see how they were doing as well. Yuuri spoke with her in a quiet, sort of detached tone, and in Japanese. Victor leaned over so he could say hello, his hair stuck out in a strange, fluffy bush thanks to the sweatband he had just slipped back up from around his neck, one he’d pilfered during his practice from Mila. Makkachin, hearing Victor’s voice, barked happily and Mari held the phone down so he could stick his big black nose into the screen to try to sniff and snuffle at him.

“Long morning?” she asked them after Makkachin had settled for sitting on her lap and listening. “You both look beyond beat.”

“I think I’m still suffering jet-lag,” Yuuri told her, knowing well that it wasn’t - it was just a hard morning of floor exercise and strength training with a tiny breakfast of coffee and an apple, and a lunch consisting of a small protein bar before leaving the center.

“You’ll start feeling alright just as you get back home.”

“Usually, then I’ll have to adjust all over again.”

“Vic-chan,” she said, and he angled the phone for them, “have you given your interview yet?”

“Yes, I have. I have my photoshoot tomorrow. It’s rather unfortunate but it appears they have us all scheduled separately on their own time, so I won’t be able to edge in on the others for you and Minako-sensei, I’m sorry. But! Christophe sends his love. His interview is delightful, if a little scathing. His exhibition skate is to some song about Genghis Khan. Getting a little Genghis Khan. Something.”

“Oh. Miike Snow. Miike with two I’s.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes at this exchange, recalling Victor’s moaning and groaning the previous evening about the time he and Chris thought it’d be a good idea to date. And about the interview and about the song and about how Chris is obviously spending too much time with Stéphane, and how it was just because of Milan, and on and on and on until he left for the pool... After letting them talk for a bit he turned the phone back towards himself to ask his sister how their parents were doing. Victor went back to his own phone and started scrolling through the various photos he’d been taking, including several of Chris laid out on the ice in scintillating poses, (hamming it up very obviously in short-shorts and leggings, and an old windbreaker) obviously intent on sending some to her once their call was over. Yuuri watched as Mari told them that business was well enough, and even Makkachin was helping by greeting and wishing farewell to visitors throughout the day. He was getting a lot of pets and attention in return. Next to her, Makkachin barked softly, sort of a chuffing sound, and leaned forward to sniff at her phone again. “I do hope you boys are having a good time, regardless. Catch up on your rest and don’t push yourself so hard. It’s an exhibition, not a competition.”

Victor leaned over and said, “I’ve tried to remind him.”

They ended the call with well wishes and some more cooing at Makkachin, and Yuuri put his phone away. Out the window of the shuttle he could see the shopping district that surrounded the hotel block, and he felt Victor nudge him gently. He looked down to see that Victor had selected a few of the most promiscuous photos of Chris to send to Mari, and quietly, he reached over to tap the screen and add one more - one of Victor and Chris from the cafe. Victor gave a soft snort of a laugh and sent them onwards to her.

Then Victor asked, still in his parsed Japanese, “Please come and spend time with me before dinner. Please? I’d rather do this silent treatment out downtown where I can buy you candied walnuts and watch you eat every one and spoil your meal. You don’t have to say a word. I want to spend time with you while we have it together, here. And there’s not much of it. Especially tomorrow.”

He had been looking forward to a shower and a long nap, and he only looked at Victor tiredly.

“You can nap, first, if you need to. It gives me time to shower,” he said, able to read him as clear as day, words or no.

So he did. He took his jacket and his shoes off as he entered the room, and was pleased to see that the bed was made so he could just lay down on it as it was, check his phone for any final messages and set his alarm for about an hour from then. He passed out promptly, his glasses on the nightstand.

When he rose an hour later, sitting up carefully and feeling every muscle in his body complain at him, slipping his glasses on and taking stock of everything again, he saw that Victor was on the other side of the room sitting in one of the chairs, with the hotel’s small ironing board and iron on the table in the corner and the television on and muted. His hair was wrapped up in a towel, and he was fussing over a button on a shirt.

“Hello, welcome back,” he said to Yuuri, looking as if he’d been sitting there in his robe the whole time and had no plans to move to change out of it.

Yuuri slowly got up and sorted through his luggage for some smaller clothing items and then reached into the closet for the suit he’d brought - the one he’d had tailored just a little short in the legs and sleeves, that he liked to wear with a light blue dress shirt and a daring polka-dot ascot that matched the darker blue of his glasses frames. It was one of a few suits that Victor had helped him be fitted for, and by far his favorite because of how smart but casual it was. Perfect for dinners out or small parties.

Into the bathroom he went, taking the suit out of its travel bag to let any wrinkles steam out as he showered.

Once under the hot stream of water he let himself relax, slouching and leaning and taking his time uncoiling. He let himself feel sad again, but capped it quickly, as he could feel his stomach trying to knot itself up - no longer full of the meager meals he’d had so far and definitely needing more after that morning’s strenuous practice.

He dried off as fast as he could so he wouldn't be tempted to examine more of his body in the mirror than was necessary and spent a little time trying to get his hair under control instead before he simply told himself to forget it; he settled with towel-drying it mostly before getting dressed in everything but the blazer and his socks, putting his confidence back on like an armor one piece at a time. He’d figured that wearing a hat for a few hours would tamp his dark mop down considerably anyways, and came back out to put his practice clothes into his laundry bag and to finish getting ready. He hoped that Victor had left the iron out, or that he might offer to press out a stubborn crease in one of the sleeves of the blazer himself.

“You look fantastic,” Victor told him, paused in his work - lint brush in one hand and a pant leg in the other, the slacks hung over the back of the chair he’d been sitting in earlier. It was a beautiful suit that Yuuri had seen him wear once before at a museum event a couple of years prior - a plain elephant grey that had a gorgeous floral print growing up and along the bottom hem of the slacks, and of the blazer and its sleeves; roses in various red hues and a few bluish-purple flowers interspersed amongst them and their green foliage. He wore it with the delicately pink shirt whose button he’d been tending to, and which he wore now, with just his trouser socks and a pair of boxer briefs and a smile on, now. It was only half buttoned, and Yuuri could see a nipple peeking out at him through the opening.

After realizing he’d been staring for a bit too long, Yuuri gave him a tight-lipped smile in return and a slight bow before getting back to getting ready.

He looked for a place to hang his blazer and Victor did offer to press it for him quickly once he was done brushing down his slacks. “Still,” he said, laughing a bit, shaking his head and going back to brushing. “I feel like I am serving an undeterminable sentence. What can I do to end it? Or what at least can be done to stop more time from being added on to it? Can I possibly make it up before dinner, I wonder. If I said nothing more to you between now and then but heartfelt apologies, would that lessen the pennance? Oh,” he lamented with a big sigh.

Frankly Yuuri did find himself worried - that he’d give in and before he would know it Victor would be commenting on his order at diner and he’d be angry all over again. Hell, he worried that it would happen even if he didn’t give in. He had learned from Yuri that Mila had basically told him to go fuck himself, Yuuri hadn’t had any pizza and the three of them could vouch. And that he needed to eat anyways, she could practically pick him up in the same manner she could Yuri. He could feel himself tensing back up again, and as he slipped his socks on and looked over his dress shoes for scuffs, he decided to just sit back for a moment and browse through his phone apps to look up the area around the restaurant, some reviews of it, and its menu. Prepare himself for it. He also thought about how conversation during the meal might go. It wouldn’t be fair to Stéphane to have so much tension at the table and all in all, this was his own problem. It shouldn’t be such a noticeably public affair. Guilt seeped in suddenly. His stomach grumbled at him.

“What will we do about dinner?” Victor asked after some time, finally putting down the lint brush and putting on the slacks, and shaking Yuuri out of the caloric math he was doing in his head. “Will we have to sit behind masks all evening? I would miss your little face awfully. Will you converse freely with Stéphane? Your voice is like a favorite song I could not bear stay silent to. I _must_ sing along.”

Yuuri looked up and over the rims of his glasses at him, and it was so effective that whatever song Victor was about to start belting out at that moment had been entirely forgotten, and swallowed in a big, loud and stuttering gulp of air. Painfully.

After recovering from that, a hand held at his chest and the other taking up Yuuri’s blazer to press it, he apologized again, and did so very simply.

They spent some time exploring shops nearby; Victor always speaking to him gently in Japanese in the hopes of eliciting a response that wasn’t a simple nod or shake of Yuuri’s head. Anything before their dinner. Yuuri just didn’t really have words. Not for Victor at the moment, at least. For Stéphane, he decided that he would.

“I was just thinking to myself about Milan,” Stéphane said, sitting down and taking a moment aside to thank their server and take a proffered wine list. “You and I, and little baby Christophe. Who else? I should remember.”

“He keeps alluding to it like he was actually in the magazine. What happened? Neither of you were,” Yuuri found himself saying.

“Christophe was,” Victor offered, and Yuuri could see him trying to maintain his excitement that there would be actual conversation at the table tonight through the terror over what it actually consisted of at the moment. “I told you, you knew precisely which one I was talking about.”

“Little Christophe was so upset that we had disappeared on him, but I think he was okay with it after he’d found us out.” Stéphane waved a hand. “We came up with other plans, I suppose, is the easiest way to put that. Took a boat out, ran away for a couple of days. Canceled our shoots. Overstayed on the magazine’s dime, I think. I’m kidding, they cut us short, we were paying for that out of pocket. My God, did we pay for that. I’d definitely argue that it was worth it, though. Yakov. Yakov was so mad. Josef, Christophe’s coach, you know, he had a hell of a time calming him down. It was if we had eloped. As if I’d kidnapped poor Victor. What a mess.”

“I can’t wait to tell Phichit and Yuuko that I was right. ” Yuuri mused, and the two older men shared a look - though Stéphane seemed more like he was about to laugh. Victor’s terror crept fully into his expression, and he asked Yuuri what he meant. And Yuuri rounded on him. “Please, Victor, my dorm room was plastered with photos and posters. My room at home was, too, literally minutes before you walked into it. You can imagine how excited I was when I heard you were going to be in that issue, and how disappointed I was later when it was just an interview. Both of you had canceled your shoots due to scheduling. It just made sense to me. Phichit got an absolute earful. ‘He’s seeing Stéphane, I have no chance, this is it. Kill me.’ But also it was a lot of talk about how great the both of you were, and were for each other.”

Victor decided it was best to keep quiet for the moment, mouthing a quiet ‘Oh,’ and trying to go back to the wine list. Yuuri hoped it hadn’t been _too_ snippy, if only for Stéphane’s sake, but also that it was enough to keep Victor from trying to engage him again.

“Were we that obvious?” asked the Swiss man, able to hold back the laughter but not his wicked grin. “I didn’t think we were.”

“To me it was. We had a name for it, Phichit and I.”

“Yes?”

“‘The Summer of Like.’”

“That’s adorable. I love that - very, uh... innocent. I’m sorry we were the source of some disappointment. Hopefully this week will make up for that? You’ll get another beautiful visage of Victor to hide away with wherever the rest of your room went, I assume you kept it all still, and he’ll get one of you in return.”

“I’m actually not doing this shoot.”

It was then that the server came back around for their drink order. Victor picked a chardonnay. Stéphane ordered a cabernet and Yuuri followed suit. He also ordered an appetizer - mini crab cakes, not even waiting for some sort of reaction from his coach before turning his attention right back to getting the delayed one from Stéphane. He was hungry - and he didn’t want to find himself falling face-forward, drunk, into his meal by the time it arrived in front of him. And he didn’t want to argue about that, either.

Concerned, but in his mild and kind manner of expressing it, Stéphane brought the conversation back with a careful tease. “A Summer of Like redux?”

“No, I’m just. Not,” Yuuri answered simply.

“It’s a bit overwhelming, the thought of it, yes? A little stressful. Am I lean enough; what is that there, will that be seen? Am I too hairy? Like being in front of a lover for the first time. Suddenly, you think, oh, no.”

“Exactly.”

“Nothing is wrong with that,” Stéphane said, but then he shrugged and continued. “I think they’d already have to be impressed with you to ask. That is just my thought, though.”

But it was a fair point, and one he knew he had to concede - he owed himself that much at least. Yuri was right. He’d been putting in so much hard work. Mila was right, he had to recognize that. And Otabek was right, he had to frame this positively. A met goal certainly needed to be celebrated. And then it hit him. Was this why they wanted to feature him? That was shallow! Or… was it? No. No, no, he knew the tones they used in the discussions they wanted to have about the topics that needed to be addressed. This wasn’t about policing.

His stomach growled.

“I assume you’re doing this shoot, Victor?”

“I thought about just having them photograph Makkachin in my place, honestly. Yuuri was complaining last week after I canceled a salon visit.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes and Stéphane shook his head. It was a joke, obviously, he’d never cancel unless it was an emergency. Victor eased the conversation into more of what Stéphane had been up to lately, and Yuuri was happy to busy himself with his drink and his appetizer when it arrived, offering some of the delicious little fried cakes up to his company and then being every so silently grateful and yet still a bit troubled that they declined more than a bite, and when they decided it was time to order dinner, he stuck to his guns and ordered a full meal of steak with a couple of sides. And he was glad that he had done that, too. The satisfaction he was feeling was worth having felt so terrible that morning, trying to work out, but he hated acknowledging it.

Once back at the hotel, Victor undressed down to his underwear, but instead of jumping on the bed excitedly as he usually did, he sat on the edge of it and stretched his legs out, looking down at his chest and his stomach and legs. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri was shuffling out of his own suit, carefully hanging it up so he could ask the hotel to dry-clean it.

“Did you like me better with the long hair or without?” After a few minutes, he lay back on the bed, resting on his elbows. “I cut it after I stopped seeing Stéphane. I’m certain you know it. Or you at least had the idea. It was Christophe who got the two of us together, and he won’t tell you he did but he cried when he saw me with such a short cut. It’s been some time. I hope I’m doing better by you. I’d hate to have to start waxing my head.”

It didn’t elicit a laugh. Yuuri stood there near the closet door and stared at him a bit, aware that he looked like he was about to say something, though he literally still had no words. He was finally down to his own boxer briefs, but his slacks he held in his hand. Suddenly he was overwrought with this weird sort of anger and he balled them up and threw them aside.

He squared his hips and started to take off his briefs. “Yuuri,” Victor said quietly.

“Look at this,” he said, splaying a hand out across a thigh. “These. Look, here.” He brought both hands to his hips and his waist. Then he held one arm up and rubbed at the skin there with his other hand. “Here, too.” And he knew that they weren’t new at all but he’d become suddenly a million times more aware of them and a billion times more self-conscious about them since getting that letter in the mail. Since the other morning. Since dinner, how long ago.

“What? Yuuri, please, I’ve noticed them. I see them every time you lay down with me, and I pay them no mind. I have stretch marks as well. It’s skin, it tears and bruises. Weight loss, weight gain. Accidents. I didn’t know you could get them from growing taller too quickly. But I did. It’s just the skin. It scars. They’re just little scars.”

“Our lifts. I’m working towards our lifts, you mentioned the difficulty.”

“Our lifts are good. I didn’t realize we were going into pairs competitively. The Committee won’t like that at all.”

“Mila can lift me,” he said, tugging his briefs back up.

“Was she bench pressing you like she does Yuri?”

“No.”

“Okay, but -”

“Well here - catch me.”

Victor’s eyes widened as Yuuri backed up a few steps, and then came at him quickly, sort of vaulting up over him on the bed. It was a quick fumble, and Yuuri knew he was going to have fingerprint bruises along the bottom of his ribcage and maybe a few along their shins and ankles where they flailed against one another, but Victor caught him indeed and held him above himself steadily, peering at him with those terrible blue eyes. “I’m strength-training too, Yuuri.”

“...Down.”

Victor rolled himself up and gently put Yuuri down, and they quietly regarded each other for a moment. Yuuri watched Victor’s hair sort of fall down into his face a bit, messily. Victor reached forward for him, putting his hands on his hips and pulling him close. His thumbs ran over where his hip bones were, and Yuuri realized he had done the same thing the other morning, in bed. He’d been running his fingers over those stretch marks there. Paying them no mind.

“Listen. The pizza, the fruit comment, the little things, there are so many little things. So. Many. This is why I don’t want to do the shoot.”

“No one is making you do the shoot, my love. Come here, love, come here. Oh, boy.” And with that, Yuuri felt himself finally bubbling over with what he wanted to say, because it wasn’t just food. Or the stretch marks or being able to do more difficult lifts. But it just sort of came out as a tired, blubbering mess of tears and mumbling, and he felt Victor’s arms close around him tight, Victor having stood up to meet him. “You don’t have to do the shoot, no one is telling you that you need to.”

“I don’t even know what I would talk about. I don’t want to do the interview, either,” he managed, his face hot and wet and probably very red and he knew it was probably uncomfortable for Victor too, but Victor walked them both the few steps backwards to the bed and lay them down, Yuuri on top of him.

“Yuuri, I want you to be comfortable but I don’t think it’s wise to skip the interview,” he told him, not using his coach voice.

“I’m skipping the interview,” was the mumbled reply.

“As your coach I don’t think you should. This is something you worked hard for, too. Like working to raise our lift level. I want you to at least do the interview, please?”

“I don’t know what I would say.”

“You can talk about your skating, you can talk about your wins, you can talk about your parents’ hot springs again, how good hot springs are for the body. You can talk about your degree, you can talk about ballet. Maybe pole-dancing. You can talk about your training, how you pole-dance as part of your training. Or how you beat me in a dance-off and how you’re going to beat me for a medal next. You can talk about how mean I am all day to make sure you fit into- fit the. Fit the bill for the Olympics,” Victor listed off, but as he barely finished his last suggestion, his voice dwindled off a bit, realizing that he had just done it again, but “I’m sorry, Yuuri. Lord help me, I am an idiot.”

Yuuri looked at him, and he hoped he looked miserable because damn if he didn’t feel that way. He should have just opted to stay home with Makka. He should have just stayed home that day he decided to walk back to his rink. He should have just dropped out of the whole season instead of opting for fewer course credits. He lay there, Victor kissing the top of his head and he didn’t really have the urge to get up or do anything more than just sob. He was tired. Tired of starving himself and tired of over-exerting himself, and tired of the most good-natured tease knocking the confidence out of him. And he was tired of even staying silent! He _knew_ withdrawing was his go-to coping mechanism and he tried _so_ hard to break it and he was doing really well with everyone else up to this point but now he just wanted to hide here in the hotel room for the rest of the week. And then go home and never think about skating again. He was very, very tired.

“I’m an idiot,” Victor told him again, and again and again and again, though by the last time he said it aloud Yuuri was fast asleep, having worn himself out completely.

The next morning Yuri and Otabek sat down in what had pretty much become their “spot” in the cafe, and within seconds they were swarmed by kittens. True kittens. Two litters of foster kittens that were ready for adoption but needed a little extra socialization and some play space for their large quantities of energy were in the cafe today, along with a couple of new adults. Three of the cats they had seen the previous morning were gone. Samy brought the pair of skaters their drinks, and was very happy to go over the list of adoption inquiries that had been occurring the last few days because of Yuri’s instagram posts. There were almost a dozen, with one pending as the person who placed it was actually from France, and the three cats missing had found their forever homes. It was really great that his popularity was bringing in more business, though Yuri hoped that they’d be able to keep the roving horde of his fans - his Angels, he told Samy, and she laughed, saying that seemed fitting for this town - guessing for the rest of their time in L.A. as to what time they were there; posting his photos to Instagram out of order was definitely helping, however he did worry that he’d be spotted at Otabek’s practice slot at the sports center in a bit. He wondered if he should just stay in the training room that had the big mirror and work on his choreography for Lilia.

The thought made him crankier than he had been feeling.

“You look tired,” Otabek told him, handing him one of the kittens that had climbed up with the intent to try to get into his latte in its lidded cup.

“So do you.”

The gangly little beast that Otabek had handed him meowed, and meowed demandingly, staring him down from its new seat in his lap. One of the adult cats along the window ledge turned to look, but only for a moment or two. “It was a rough night next door, wasn’t it?” When Otabek furrowed his brow deeply, Yuri said, “I don’t know what the problem was and I’m kind of afraid to ask. I think Katsudon’s having a really hard time with things.”

“I won’t ask about it, either.”

“I wouldn’t. They’ll figure it out.”

It was a departure and a half and Victor was still caught between being glad he could help and feeling like he was stepping on the toes of Otabek’s coach (in the wake of the rejected visa renewal that kept him from being there) - but after a little bit he mostly felt like it wasn’t the program or the exhibition finale choreography that needed some work. It was a solid program, a very hard remix he’d done of “Drive It Like You Stole It” by the Glitch Mob that would do very nicely before Yuri’s “Welcome to the Madness” as they’d had planned. Another powerful skate, but he found himself impressed with how sensually visceral it was. It seemed Otabek was finally learning what his hips were.

“So what is it, then?” Victor said, circling him as they stood on the far end of the rink, stretching his arms out as he spun lazily, ready to transition into the ABBA medley work. He liked this piece they were doing - it seemed like something Scott Hamilton had arranged, buoyant and raucous, a call for a good time, but it was Leo and J.J., flexing their skills, and flexing them well. Victor looked back out over the seating of the arena, where some fans were allowed to sit and watch. A few waved at him. He waved back. “What’s troubling you? It’s not the swizzling? Is it that Sara and Mickey are stealing our little Yuri away for a performance? You want to come and show him up with a program of your own? Maybe with me and Yuuri the night before the exhibition. Is that it?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Otabek, not really reacting to that bit of teasing so much as just answering the question. “I actually really like their piece.”

It was a good one; short and simple and one that Sara had eagerly agreed to do, and more surprising one that Michele had suggested. So of course he would pick one of the least threatening skaters he knew and could trust to give it a go.

“Aimee Mann is nice, you’ll like her,” the older skater said, wondering if it was nervousness at meeting the prevalent songwriter, whom Sara had invited to come and see the show.

“I’m sure… It’s. Well. How. How?”

“...How?”

Otabek backed up a bit and followed Victor in circling about. “How do you deal with this? The magazines. Everything. I’m not. What I would think they want. I don’t give a good face.”

“I think you have a very nice face, Altin. Here. Let’s lap, just once.” So they did, slowly, minding the other skaters who were there towards the opposite of the rink. Tugging at his gloves and rolling the sleeves of his henley up a bit, Victor said they were going to do a sweet little pass-by for the fans sitting close to the boards, coming to an absolute crawl, almost. “Put your hand up under your chin and level your elbows. Like you are thinking. We are going to look like Michelangelo’s Cherubs for them.”

“That’s egregious.”

“We’ll slide in on the railing, it will be cute. Come.”

So they did, and it was a little clumsy but they managed, with Victor sliding in right behind him, hugging the boards at a ridiculously angled squat. The fans were very pleased about this, and respectfully took turns snapping quick photos of them before Victor feigned falling, yelling that he couldn’t keep squatting like he was. One girl happened to get a photo of Victor’s hand just as he was disappearing from sight, and it was instantly shared among everyone around them before she excitedly tagged them both in it on Instagram. Many of the fans actually had questions for Otabek, and he took a few minutes to answer a couple of short ones while Victor watched. There was some hesitance when he was asked to take a few selfies with them, but he did anyhow, and Victor squeezed a few in with some of them before teasingly whisking him away with the promise to give him back again after they were done. “So.”

“That was mortifying,” was the response.

“You see how happy they were to finally interact with you, though? They genuinely do think you are great. Great Hero, Otabek.” Victor slipped around and in front of him and made a silly bodybuilder pose. “They want to know more about you. You are coming up in the sport. A contender. You are grabbing their attention and frankly it’s really adorable.”

“I have been told I look angry all the time even when I’m in a good mood, and it’s upsetting. Not once, but often. People often ask me what’s wrong when nothing is wrong.”

Victor rocked a bit, sort of stopping at that, and Otabek put his hands in his jacket pockets.

He was about to apologize when Otabek continued, “I’m glad you asked though. I know it must be hard to tell if something is the matter or not.”

“Is Yuri going to the shoot with you?”

At Otabek’s last-minute insistence or cancellation, and the photographer agreeing to it whole-heartedly, they allowed Yuri to attend the shoot, though with the express condition that he not photograph or video. This country had laws. But he was doing so anyways, however, and filling the gap in his social media timeline with photos from the cat cafe, waiting for the right time to start posting a meal somewhere unnamed and later on practice clips from the rink at the sports center, where he’d been skulking about watching Victor and Otabek. The magazine staffers weren’t fussing about him too much anyhow - they were mostly skittering back and forth across carpeted mats on the ice with cables and lighting rigs and reflectors, trying to ensure that Otabek’s backside was being captured in all the right shadows and from as many different angles as was probably inhumanly possible. Yuri watched from the boards, having quickly exhausted his curiosity about this tiny little rink and quietly wishing that they’d taken this out somewhere scenic like Topanga Canyon or Malibu. To have watched Otabek disrobe against a backdrop of rolling waves would have just elevated everything about this a little bit more. This was quite alright, though. Otabek wasn’t quite on the ice, yet, he was still on the mats himself, guards on his blades. He faced away from the cameras and the boards, one arm brought back with his hand resting at the small of his back and the other stretched upwards. His hips were twisted slightly as if he were about to turn on point. It wasn’t entirely a ballet pose; it seemed more like he was getting ready to burst into a masculine tango.

“Over your shoulder a bit more, please, sort of lean down a bit so you can turn a little more… Okay, right there,” said their photographer, trying to get that serious gaze in the shot. “I don’t want to sound mean at all and you probably get this a lot, so I’m sorry, but do you smile? Ever? A little smirk at all? What can I get you to do to smile? I want to see if you have dimples.”

“I see dimples quite clearly,” Yuri offered. A few of the staffers chuckled, some stifled themselves. Otabek dipped his head a bit, trying keep his own composure.

“Oh, no, head back up, please - Wai, can I get you just under him here in front? Pop your hand here, dear, I need him to look just off-center, but hold that steady.” One of the crew shuffled a reflector against her foot and knee and tucked some of her hair behind her ear before she put that hand out for Otabek to focus on. “Golden, thank you,” said the photog. “That’s it exactly. Mr. Plisetsky?”

“Yuri,” the younger skater said, “Please.”

“Yuri, does he smile?”

“Behave, Yura,” Otabek said warningly. “You’re technically not here, remember?”

They took a moment to change his position, and while he moved about, openly, Yuri sad, “I’m _very_ here,” and the gal that had been holding her hand out hid herself behind the big reflector she had, obviously trying not to completely lose it while Otabek simply ignored the comment and settled into something that wasn’t quite a catchback but not quite a layback camel, either. In fact, it looked like a rather painful and failed entry into a spin but it was directed as needed for discretion. Yuri cringed, watching Otabek trying to relax his joints and limbs so that he could contort comfortably and elongate his back just so. He heard himself say, “I’ve seen him smile once. He was very excited to show me a new mix he had made.”

“A mix, hm? I have a miniature speaker here in my kit if you’d like to play it. We’re just getting started and any good party needs some good music.”

After a few moments, Otabek agreed to it.

They did a few more neutral poses and by the time the music set had everyone settled and feeling good, he was feeling more relaxed himself. The blade guards came off and some of the mats disappeared, and so it was time for some action shots - careful ones, but action nonetheless. The photographer was quite excited - this was where Otabek completely started to take the reigns of the shoot and get playful and experiment, and it was heavily encouraged, so the world could see his body as not just a tool for his expressive art, but the zenith of it. Through the lens and on the monitor, they saw him work.

In the lights and against the ice, Yuri saw him glow.

* * *

> _Altin is scheduled to do his interview here at the rink after his shoot, and he sits back in his chair, the plush robe more of a comfortable afterthought at this point than a meager cover-up, and it’s quite a change from the relationship he had with it when we started the shoot. I can see the change in his demeanor, though slight, as his is a very strong and stoic one and he’s very difficult to read. I start off by asking him if there’s a word that he might use to describe himself, or one that sticks with him when others do._
> 
> _“Unconventional. That’s one I heard a lot. It’s when they want to say I don’t seem graceful without coming off as rude but still allowing them the space to say I was phenomenal after I’d surprise them.”_
> 
> _“Has that gotten better?”_
> 
> _“Hopefully it will now. A lot of people saw me as a dark horse, if that’s the right phrase. Not an underdog. People root outwardly for underdogs. There’s a thin veil of a threat in a dark horse.”_
> 
> _“Do you prefer that more?”_
> 
> _“I prefer being taken seriously.” He realizes quickly that he was waiting for another question, and I’m waiting for a little more of an explanation to this. He says after a moment, and perhaps he was just thinking about how he wanted to continue, “Hopefully now I will be. Unconventional. That word. The connotation for me, hopefully, that will change too. That I can say that my training and my routine are indeed unconventional, and take pride in that. They are mine. They showcase the best I have to offer, instead of hindering me. That my body itself is not what people imagine when they think of figure skaters. It’s not built to be using the classical training we see - ballet, all that. It can improve my dexterity, and reach, sure, but I’m still battling my own proportions. I cannot change those. This is prime, for me.”_
> 
> _“You don’t see your build as a weakness.”_
> 
> _“No. I’ve found most of my current weaknesses over the last season, and I’ve been working hard at improving upon them. You fix problems you can see at that moment and once those are handled you focus on something else you’ve just uncovered, or you realize you’ve picked up a bad habit along the way. But again, I can’t really change my broadness, or my height, or any of this. So. With my body, I’ve just learned what it is capable of and how to use it to an advantage. I think that’s what frightens my competitors the most, now. I can throw my weight into my spins and jumps and it gives me a little more speed, a little more momentum. I have a lower center of gravity and it makes for more accurate and solid landings, so yes, my technical score is always going to be my best bet. But that is not to say that because I don’t see it as a weakness it means that I’m not improving upon working with it - they are all going to have to watch out once I learn how to actually dance like they do. It’s going to become terribly hard to stop me.”_
> 
> _“That shouldn’t be hard for a renowned DJ.”_
> 
> _“Well. I just make the music. Then my competitors will ask to skate to it.”_
> 
> _Altin’s music is indeed starting to pick up some traction, and he admitted that he’s had inquiries with such institutions as the Ministry of Sound for production and even possibly appearances. It’s impressive. “We had a chance to listen to your music today and it’s very expressive and great at conveying movement, especially fluidity - are your mixes something you want to incorporate more into your own programs any time soon?”_
> 
> _“Yuri Plisetsky and Michele Crispino, their latest exhibition skates are my mixes. Mine is as well, and that’s something new for me, though eventually if it works I may do it more, or again. I do like using more traditional compositions as they fulfill an expectation and allow for a little ease in the scoring in the program component - they’re all… emotionally powerful pieces. I suppose I cheat a bit in letting the music carry that artistic emotion for me. Eventually it would be nice though, in the free program, and maybe it would help. I do get a little worried about that but I won’t be the first or the last skater to perform to music I’ve created myself. It happens quite a bit. Skaters want to be able to express themselves and sometimes they look to complete the feeling with their own voice, or their own compositions. And it’s good, it allows them that freedom. More often I find myself wondering if that’s just how I dance, though; that’s where all my ability to dance goes. Through the music I make itself instead.”_
> 
> _“Transcendent.”_
> 
> _“I’m no Van Dyk,” he says with a small but mischievous smile, something our photographer and his crew had been trying to capture all afternoon._

* * *

 

Victor’s own shoot was an absolute riot. Well, that practice was, too, but this had a lot less gifts being thrown at him, even if the flashing lights were about the same. He put on his appropriate smile and took off his clothes, appropriately as well, and went to it like it was his millionth time naked in front of a camera, not counting selfies, and not bothered by anything that was stressing him at the time, either. It was vibrant and fun, and it was hard for him to tell if they managed to get any serious shots done at all with the amount of laughter and joking going on. Much of the shoot crew were familiar with his work and he made it very easy for them to get familiar with him by willingly answering any questions they had and telling stories that didn’t command attention but allowed the work to get done and others to interact. His photographer said he’d been ready for a shoot that was just going to be so cut and dry because he seemed so practiced and well-rehearsed in front of the camera but they quickly fell into a very collaborative process, and Victor was actually surprised that it seemed to him to be over so soon. Quickly, he dressed again, and coaxed one of the video staffers out for a skate while they waited for the digital proofs to render and the crew to pack up, as the little rink was still theirs to use privately for a short while longer. The young man, Elliot, he’d introduced himself as, actually knew how to skate some, and had been following his movements on the ice for some behind-the-scenes promos. Victor taught him some figure skating moves.

There were quite a lot of good serious photos, at the end of it. There was a good number of everything, really. Some not so good, some beautiful but silly. Some where he could tell he was putting it all on; he may have just been looking at a target out of sight of the shot but he found himself wishing that he didn’t have to imagine Yuuri there with him instead.

It was good, though. He was excited that he could put this worry behind him and focus on the exhibition, now. And Yuuri.

The magazine chauffeured him back to the hotel in a quiet, private vehicle, and as he watched the evening L.A. traffic around him he realized just how long of a day it had been, physically. He was ready for dinner, and ready for a hot bath. His knees were sore and his back and hips hurt from all of the awkward posing and perilous balancing acts. He also wanted to take a better look under some warmer lights at the bruises they’d found and photographed today, wondrously and alongside the silvery scars along his knee from his injury and the subsequent surgery, what seemed like eons ago. They were rather dark but not quite turning at the edges yet as they healed. He practically lived on the ice but that didn’t mean he wasn’t absent-minded and therefore immune to accidents; these newer marks were from a couple of falls he’d taken during the first practice with Yakov, the night he’d arrived in L.A.

“Preoccupation, Vitya, fix it,” Yakov had told him. “You’re back in for points now, they’re not going to care that you’re dancing about with your love like a pairs skate and learning lifts. It’s not a social, either.”

He’d sat there on the ice for a few extra seconds, laughing, and when Yakov asked him what was so funny he asked, “It’s more a problem with that, really. I messed up. Big time.”

Yakov sighed. “You know I’m the last person who could help you with this.”

“From a coach’s perspective, was I wrong?”

“Probably. And from a lover’s perspective you were probably wrong, too. So. You fix it.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how and just making it worse.”

“As it goes. It will settle down and it will click. And you’ll learn. Now up, let’s go, I want to see this sequence flawless before I let you leave back to Japan or you’ll be coming back with me early, too.”

After a few more attempts at the choreography he figured out what was catching his blades up upon themselves, and he shrugged, now sliding through the steps with an ease and making his way serpentine across the rink. He was sort of happy to be working with Lilia on all of this again, but also sort of cursing it. He also knew that she and Yakov probably had a running bet to see when he’d finally drop her choreography and let loose with his own and upset the Committee with it. Like always.

“Everything, so hard and yet so easy for you all at once, Vitya.”

That thought still awfully circling in his mind as it had been for the last couple of days, he made his way through the hotel lobby and thought he might check to see if Yuuri was working out before going up to the room.

Yuuri was the only one in the fitness room, so he had left the television off, popped his headphones in, and just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. After a short while, he could see some movement out of the corner of his eye, to his left. He glanced over. It was Victor, slowly getting the treadmill he was on going. In a casual suit. His gear bag was against the wall.

“The shoot went well,” Victor said after keeping a walking pace for some time. “Yakov says hello. He may come to practice in the morning. Not to snoop. ...Well, _maybe_ to snoop. Mostly on me.”

His music was low enough so that he could hear Victor over it, but Yuuri didn’t take his earbuds out. He didn’t slow down, either, his jog constant and methodical. He did look at his watch, though. Another ten minutes, he figured.

Another mile.

Victor kept his own pace for the whole ten minutes and said nothing more.

Yakov did join them the next morning, and Yuuri, running on the energy of the small salad for dinner that night before and the single egg and slice of toast he allowed himself for breakfast, was content to spend most of the time going over the exhibition choreography in tandem with Leo before shaking himself out and settling into some technical work with Victor. He gave his glasses a quick wipe with the cleaning cloth he’d slipped into his back pocket before taking off his jacket and tying it around his waist while Victor loosened himself up with some footwork. The element they were practicing was a new one, part of some choreography Yuuri was adapting from an older routine he’d worked over with Celestino for a new piece that was a little heavier on the technical side. He kept his voice to a minimum, giving short answers only, but letting Victor tap and pat and rub at him to show him this or that or correct a position, and to give him encouragement. They eventually both took their jackets off and placed them on the boards, and Yuuri took a moment to help Victor pin some of his hair out of the way. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. Him in his Under Armour and a loose tee, and Victor in his weird neon biking leggings with a tank top that read ‘sleeves are bullshit’, they rounded out their practice time with some jumps and landings.

Celestino showed up with coffee at some point, a big cardboard box of it, and he and Yakov stood there and evaluated the skaters as they worked.

At the end of it Victor wanted to drag Yuuri about and play for a bit before Yuuri and Celestino left to take a lunch together before meeting with the magazine for Yuuri’s interview, but he settled for a little awkward circling and then a hug and a kiss, and a promise to meet up with him later on so they could go over the full program choreography there in one of the training rooms at the sports center.

Yuri arrived at around this time, and he and Otabek finished up their own coffee drinks while sticky-rolling each other down to remove the cat hair from their cafe visit as Yakov started in on asking him if it was a latte, how many of those had he had this morning, was there pastry involved? and onwards while Yuri complained about skating with Victor, who looked like he’d just finished up pretending to be Mila. Yuuri could feel his stomach trying to eat itself whole, and also J.J. had shown up and had said aloud that he’d commandeered the sound system for his practice, sorry everyone - so he excused himself to go take a quick shower and change into some street clothes before he collapsed in on himself like some sort of dying star.

As he was leaving he could see Victor circling J.J. widely as he worked a step sequence, Meghan Trainor’s “Me Too” blaring through the rink.

Celestino’s rental was a nice one, and as Yuuri set his gear bag in the trunk, his old coach patted him on the back and said, “Let’s go get something fattening in you, you’re looking pale. You won’t be able to answer any interview questions in a fog. There’s an In-N-Out nearby, how does that sound? You don’t have to cover your fries in anything if you’re worried, though I recommend it. You worked hard today.”

And there wasn’t even a single pang of guilt in accepting that. It was still early enough in the day that a meal like this would get him through to dinner, with everything in between now and then demanding his attention and energy.

It nearly did, too.

After a second round with Victor later that afternoon that was about twenty minutes shorter than they’d wanted because he was a little more exhausted than he thought he’d be, they went back to the hotel for another shower and a nap. This time he let Victor sing to him, and he dozed until their alarms went off. He was ravenous again already, and sore everywhere, and really just wanted to skip everything for the next few days and disappear again, and not talk to anyone except for maybe Phichit. But he couldn’t do that. He let the thought of food power him through to getting ready for dinner, and was dressed before he knew it, pairing his dry-cleaned blazer with a floral button-down, a black tie and some skinny jeans. He wore his wide-brim again, hoping to be able to hide under it for most of the night. A little. Just a bit.

Victor wore a contrasting version of this outfit - his shirt a little more tropical and his suit khaki linen, with a slim belt. He did not wear a tie, but left the first couple of buttons and his blazer open and tucked in a pocket square that matched the blue color of the flowers on his shirt.

As Yuuri straightened his tie one last time in the mirror over the bureau Victor stood behind him, hands in his pockets and smiled, and after a few moments, Yuuri smiled too.

They still hadn’t talked about how the interview went.

Finally primped and mentally prepared, they met with Yuri and Otabek in the hallway, and they took a taxi to the restaurant. Along the way, Victor complimented Yuri on his outfit - a red vest over a black chiffon button down with bishop sleeves, with his torn black skinny jeans and sneakers. He complimented Otabek next, who simply wore a graphic tee under his leather jacket, but his jeans were immaculate, dark, and his sneakers looked to be from a designer line. “We look a stylish bunch, don’t we?” Victor asked, leaning down to look at the collar pins on Yuri’s shirt. “Oh! Kitties, those are really cute.”

Yuri had gotten the set at the cafe. Well. Otabek had gotten it for him. The little chain between them glimmered as he leaned back in the seat and asked if anyone knew when they’d be provided with the comp tickets for the show, and they figured they really ought to ask Leo when they arrived. In the front seat, Yuuri texted Phichit.

Their group had closed out the patio for the evening as a private party and J.J. and Isabella were the first there, excited to greet everyone. They’d only been speaking via text and email as of late, so it was good to sit down and catch up on everything Canada - hockey and film and politics, and why J.J. had chosen an American artist for his exhibition skate (it was Isabella and she copped to it, wholly) - while everyone else attending filtered in. While they placed drink orders with the wait staff and distractedly pored over the menu, J.J. spoke about what his photographer had had plans for with his piece, creating a comparative view of the bodies of a male figure skater and a female hockey player with the hope of challenging yet more athletic stereotypes. Victor asked if he knew who they’d be using as his juxtaposition, and Bella nodded. “Sarah Nurse” she said, and there was a small, teasing chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” as she told them about how they’d gone to a Canadiennes game and J.J. had gotten singled out on the jumbo-tron as an overzealous fan, but they got to meet Nurse and Meghan Agosta that evening because of it, and J.J. talked them both into accepting their magazine invites, as they had been on the fence about it.

Leo, Phichit, and Guang-Hong had popped in mid-story, but had immediately corralled around Yuuri to catch up more than they could at the rink or via phone. Phichit of course had brought his selfie stick, and it started to make its way around the room. He leaned over Yuuri to hand it off, and landed with a hug. “So, so, so. How was it? Successful?”

“It was. A little stressful but I think it will be good.”

Mila and Sara arrived with fresh manicures and cute cocktail dresses, with Seung-gil, Mickey and Emil in tow and dressed comfortably (if in Seung-gil’s case a little clashing in patterns). The group of them appeared to have been pre-gaming, and were arguing about Thomas Bangalter; the first thing they said to the room was, “Otabek! Where is Otabek, he can settle this for us,” before converging upon Otabek and Yuri with their questions.

Seung-gil took a seat next to Yuuri, shaking his hand and seeming a little glad to finally have some quieter people to spend some time with. He said he was more into K-Pop anyways. Yuuri asked him if Min-So was upset that he was spending his time doing this exhibition, and to his surprise, Seung-gil said, “I told her I wouldn’t do the magazine if I couldn’t also do this - I said in my interview that I take a lot of pride in and have a lot of excitement that the Olympics are being held in South Korea, but I’m not outward about it. I want to change that for my fans, and be an ambassador to the world for my country.”

Leaning over, Leo said, “BTS is big here in the States. It should be a good program.”

“I hope so,” Seung-gil replied, and he smiled. Yuuri and Leo looked at each other and grinned too, and as a server came by they asked for a few pitchers and glasses of water. The server nodded, but also placed a plate of food in front of Yuuri… who hadn’t ordered anything except his beer.

“This gentleman ordered them for you,” she said, gesturing at Victor, who was up and greeting Stéphane and Chris across the room at the doorway.

“I’m sorry, thank you,” he said, and asked her what it was: bacon-wrapped figs stuffed with blue-cheese, roasted and covered in honey. He and Seung-gil stared at her in amazement as she described it, and then Seung-gil and Phichit each ordered a plate of it as well while Yuuri cut a couple into pieces to split amongst them. As they talked about how incredible it was, Yuuri looked back up and around for Victor. He and Stéphane were gone. Christophe sat down across from him, a drink already in his hand from the bar. "Those look good," he said. "Everything go okay today?"

“It did.”

“You look so worn out.”

“I am. I’m sorry,” he said with a small smile. “How did yours go? I saw that Victor was there.”

“He was. You know. I think he’s still sort of adjusting to life with a partner. He has friends for days, all of us. But it’s very interesting to watch. Also very frustrating. I see him making some of the same mistakes he made with me, that he made with Stéphane, and it’s like. I was really surprised to see he’d gone into coaching because that’s just what this is. Being able to catch the mistakes and correct them.”

“What mistakes do you see him making?”

“He is not selfish, maliciously. But he is just not used to thinking in terms of other people. He is learning.” Yuuri nodded, and Chris must have seen that he’d figured this out too, because he said, “There’s faith that you two will work it out, though. You both are very communicative with one another. You’re really good for one another.”

“I’m learning and repeating mistakes, too. It’s. It’s a process.” He popped a fig into his mouth and realized that the hardest part - acknowledging that there was a problem - was actually over. It was just time to talk it out completely instead of hiding or imploding.

But before Yuuri could swallow the fig he’d eaten, Emil sat down next to Chris, complaining. “Why is it that 80’s pop music gets such a weird reception?”

The young Swiss man patted him on the shoulder. “Emil, you are- you know, my friend, you are very artistic. I don’t know where you found that stunning cover but I truly think it’s a good program you have for it. Own it.” Then, to Yuuri, he said, “It’s a cover of ‘Broken Wings’, but it’s in Czech. You know. Mr. Mister.”

“It’s in Czech, it’s Sámer Issa. He called it ‘Babylon’ and I love it. It’s better than a new song made old!”

After sometime, Stéphane and Victor had re-materialized, and Victor sat down next to Yuuri, asking if he’d had enough to drink yet so he might call for another dance contest.

“A dance contest?” asked Stéphane, excitedly.

From the other side of the patio they could hear Yuri yelling about leaving back to St. Petersburg on the next flight out.

Instead of St. Petersburg the next morning, he and Otabek went back to the cat cafe. In between texts and playing with the cats and kittens, and Yuri’s conversation with Samy, Otabek was looking through Instagram - and recognized a sketch of himself. Well. Of his backside.

It was from a fan, and it only showed up on his feed because his name wasn’t mentioned, but hash-tagged. He showed Yuri. The caption read, “Work brings me such amazing joy this week - a drawing study source!” followed by a few bear emojis. The comments explained that the artist had been on the photoshoot, and that they hadn’t known who they were going to be photographing until they had shown up at the site. But the study was spectacular. And just as tasteful as the photography work for the magazine.

“...You should see if she is still in L.A.”

“That’s embarrassing,” Otabek said, half admiring the work and half screaming internally about it.

“Here, wait, let me see it again?”

He held the phone out to Yuri, who tapped the like button before he could pull it away to stop him. “No! Oh, God, Yuri, that’s -”

“Find out if she is local. You still have your tickets left.” Yuri leaned back, sipping at his latte and scritching at a cat that immediately filled his lap.

Otabek waited a few minutes, and then did so. She was. He offered her two tickets, as well, but there was a bit of a wait before she responded.

She accepted, and would pick them up at will-call.

“You give good face, Beka,” Yuri said after some time. “Good ass, too.” At that comment, Otabek spat coffee back down through his straw, causing a loud burst of bubbles inside the cup and startling a few cats around them.

After spending some time looking through their photos from the night before, and surfing social media to see what others had been posting, Yuuri sat up in bed, stretching a bit and scratching under his shirt. It wasn’t late at all, but it wasn’t so early, either. He didn’t have much of a hangover, which was good - that was when he decided to look through photos to make sure he hadn’t done anything incriminating for him to forget about for another year. At least. Well. _He_ hadn’t. His phone had some nice gems, especially the ones where Leo was teaching everyone some of his Conga choreography. He had to admit that Gloria Estefan had a way of getting people up out of their seats.. He yawned, contemplating when he should send some of the pics to Chris and Stéphane. Or the ones of Otabek to Yuri. He swung his feet over the side of the bed.

“Going for a run?” asked Victor, laying there amongst the duvet and the pillows and looking for all the world like he truly did get up to trouble the night before. Nearly falling off a booth bench during a rousing rendition of “Super Trouper” had been the older man’s stopping point for the night, and that was probably for the best.

“No,” he replied. “Breakfast. Extra bacon.”

Victor blinked at him, and then rubbed at his eyes. “Sounds good. You can order. I’ll get what you’re having.”

They ate quietly, watching news on the television. Yuuri finished Victor’s last couple of slices of bacon, and then got into the shower.

He could hear the door open and Victor call for him softly. “Who else would be in here, I wonder?” he replied aloud, ready to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. The shower curtain pulled aside just enough for Victor to climb in with him. “I was just about finished. Couldn’t wait?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

There was the sensation of water being withheld a bit, and then dumped on his head. He stood under the spray for a moment to clear the rest of the suds, and then turned to Victor, who leaned down and gave him a kiss - chaste and trembling. Yuuri put a hand on his bare chest but didn’t push, didn’t hold him back, and he could see the glint of his ring in the spray of the water and the lighting of the bathroom, reminding him that he had many other commitments to think of. It hit him suddenly that the exhibition was that evening, and they hadn't done any practice together during their week on their “Stammi” program at all. And as he looked up at Victor it seemed it had occurred to him as well at that same moment.

“Are we going to be okay tonight?” he asked.

“Are we okay right now?” Victor asked him.

Quite a lot of the last week was a blur and he knew he could easily thank his anger and frustration for that, even if it did channel mostly into better practices for his own work. Victor moved to get back out of the shower to go grab his phone, cursing at himself quietly, but then he stopped. He could call about for a rink when they were done.

“Victor, I’m sorry,” Yuuri said.

“For what? It totally slipped my mind. We’ve both been so busy I didn’t even realize. It’s just. We’re so comfortable with the program. That’s my fault. We should have made time for it.”

“We’re not changing anything, it should be fine. But no, I’m sorry - I can’t. I have to learn not to close off when I’m upset. Especially to you. I’m sorry I let it boil over. It’s just. I can’t believe I’m still dealing with so much of this, and so much of it is just stupid, little things...” He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and Victor took him into a hug. He could feel water pulling between them, and they stayed like this for several minutes.

“I have to learn to listen,” Victor finally said. “As a coach, as your love, as everything. I’m sorry. I’m trying. Please talk to me. I’m listening.” After some time though, he pulled away and looked for his soap. “We can make time, I’d bet. Help me? I think I spilled some beer in my lap last night.”

“You are a pervert,” Yuuri said, holding his hands out for a bit of shower gel anyways.

Everyone was in the highest spirits in the staging areas at the sports center, cheering each other on and enjoying a night free from scores and performative pressures; there were still a few hangover headaches lingering, but it wasn’t terrible at all. Before they knew it, they were standing there applauding Chris as he shot off the ice and onto the mats, hollering half-jokingly for a towel. He had five thrown at him, and he nearly fell over trying to put his guards on as they hit him.

Several skaters crowded around the boards and the rink entrance as Stéphane took his cue in the dark. There had been a lot of goading the night before to try to get him to spill what he’d be performing, to no avail - neither he nor Leo would say. He’d been listed on the schedule as “Special Guest To Be Announced.”

But as Stéphane was announced, the arena thrummed with murmurs of surprise and excitement. The spotlights turned on and the first few notes of Adele’s “When We Were Young” began.

Victor felt his stomach drop.

It was mournful. There really was no other single word that could encapsulate it. In fact, even that was still cutting it too short.

It was mournful, and utterly brutal. Brutal in the same way that most love letters never sent usually are: stuffed to the brim with a sense of sorrowful loss of what had been, and what hadn’t - a recollection of things that had been said in haste or carelessness; of things that hadn’t been said out of embarrassment, or that couldn’t be said out of anger or fear, or would never be said because of time. It was at the same time incredibly delicate. There was a very strong undercurrent of a hope for happiness despite, but just as the song itself spoke about that happiness as one moving forward, so too did this display. Stéphane was light on his feet and able to tell this story with a soft elegance that, in the best technical sense, was an easy set up for spectacular jumps but still allowed him to convey the sweet and gentle joy of nostalgia that was very much at the heart of the piece. And tell it, he did.

It was striking, and striking a chord within Victor.

Yuuri watched him closely from where he stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot and testing his laces, very much at ease. He’d already seen this performance in full. In fact, Stéphane had arrived fully prepared to skate an older piece had Yuuri said no to this one, but after skating it for him during their practice time together, Yuuri was very glad to tell him yes, please, skate this. Perform it and let it all be said.

It was good to see the clarity on Victor’s face.

As Stéphane stepped off the ice to thunderous applause from the arena, he met Victor with a handshake, and then pulled him into a tight hug. They shared some quick, quiet words and several kisses on each others’ cheeks before they both turned to Yuuri, and Stéphane offered him a handshake and a hug as well, tight and and strong, but full of relief, and that hope for happiness.

Yuuri and Victor then took to the ice themselves, hand in hand and smiling, madly in love with one another and stronger for it all.

At press time, two copies of the magazine arrived at the onsen, wrapped in plastic and emblazoned with stickers that read “Advanced Copies: Not for Resale”. Mari brought them to Victor and Yuuri’s room moments after they had been delivered with the rest of the mail; she borrowed the copy addressed to her brother with Victor’s blessings and the promise to return it before he arrived back from his trip with his mother around town to complete some errands.

Victor was extremely pleased with the editing of the interview he gave. It read well and they conveyed his voice very clearly. And when he turned the page he was glad to see that he’d been given a portion of the magazine’s center fold-out. It was a full-body shot that started with his blade and his backside, tantalizingly, under text that folded out to say “Of Passion: The Push to Redefine the Physical Limits of Glory.” The rest of him was long and languid, the gentle angle they had him at for several minutes that wasn’t quite a turn into a jump but wasn’t quite a lean into a turn on the inside blade. The pose that had torqued a muscle in his back and that required some kinetic tape for the rest of the week. He turned the page aside and gasped. The other gatefold page was Yuuri, in a mirrored position, his arm outstretched as well. He closed the gate fold and their hands met each other just so. The text over Yuuri read “Of Love: A Push to Redefine the Extremes of the Human Body.”

He sat there in the water quietly, beyond surprised and staring at this for what was an indeterminate amount of time before he realized that their interviews were in the centerfold, surrounded statistics and a couple of small infographics about age and weight, and how those played significant parts in a figure skaters’ career. There was also a bit about knee injuries, and one about eating disorders. It was a very well-balanced spread.

* * *

> _“So that viral video.”_
> 
> _“Mm, yes.”_
> 
> _“Is that where you’d like to start?”_
> 
> _Yuuri Katsuki fidgets in his seat; he seems restless. He’s yet to do his photoshoot with us and he keeps trying to disappear in the terry robe our staff has provided him while they set up on the rink behind us at Promenade Ice Chalet. “I’ve been trying to think of a good place to start and I think that’s as best as we’ll find. There’s a lot to unpack from there and it’s still sort of… unpacking. I’m. I’m told I’m very inward-facing, my personality. It was very easy for me to fall into such a depressive state after some hard losses and some other difficult things that had nothing to do with sport. I did manage to complete my degree. I think I can attribute that to withdrawing as suddenly as I did. I came out of that season with more, though. A drop in international standings and an eating disorder, and probably a few other diagnoses I may not have gotten - I stopped going to appointments so I could get studying in. I stopped exercising. I stopped practicing. I stopped skating. I stopped talking to my coach, as well.”_
> 
> _“You just stopped? Just. Radio silence?”_
> 
> _He nods. “I disappeared for a while. It wasn’t good. Wasn’t healthy. I fell, and fell back on food,” he tells me, and it’s clear that he’s worried about the tone in which he’d said that. And truthfully, it sounds desperate, as if he’d been sitting on saying that for so long. “It was just a dark time for me. And I hear, sweetly, ‘no, things just happen. It’s just life, you don’t have a dark history at all.’ And sure, that cheered me up a bit after thinking about it all, somewhat, but it was still a deep sadness that I needed to explore and and express, and address, and come to terms with. I wasn’t wallowing. But it was a legitimate struggle. I didn’t know how to address it. Or come to terms with it. You hit what you know is… oh, what’s the expression. A rock bottom. And you know you can’t get any further down, but while you’re just trying to go back up, you only sort of circle there for a bit instead. Not even getting any momentum behind you, you’re just. There. After midterms I just wanted to hide and simply circle for a bit. Eat. Sleep. Eventually none of my clothes fit right and I was getting winded on stairs and walking to and from my classes.”_
> 
> _“What was instrumental in getting back on the ice for you? Not competitively, but going back to that viral video?”_
> 
> _“In between sleeping and eating I was actually watching old performance videos. And I got a little mad. At myself. And then I realized, ‘I’m home now. I’m gonna get out of bed and go to the rink and if I can’t fall back on what I love more than I love food then I guess that’s that.’ So I took my time walking to my old rink, trying to not even think about it. One foot in front of the other, one skate on at a time. I honestly think that if that video hadn’t been posted, though, I wouldn’t be here. But it just felt right, getting on that ice, doing that routine, and despite the initial embarrassment it’s really no different than how I started the first time. And I think that eased things a bit for me, looking back on that. I think my biggest regret that day, now, is that I didn’t brush my hair before leaving the house.” He laughs, and I can see him finally sort of ease into his seat a little._
> 
> _“Did you pick right back up on a regimen? Was it anything new? Promoted?”_
> 
> _“A regimen, yes, oh, yes. It was called the Victor-Nikiforov-Wants-You-To-Win diet. I don’t recommend it. I came back out from hiding and almost went right back in with that video, but Victor literally showed up the next day and basically said, ‘When pigs fly’ and set right about trying to make that very thing happen. I was still sore from the day before. I’d lost so much flexibility in such a short time.”_
> 
> _“You basically went from one extreme to another, from what we can see in comparisons between that video and the exhibition there in your hometown.”_
> 
> _“Yes. It was drastic. I have. There was more emotional toll there, too. It was thrown at me once before, but then I heard it everyday, from myself - ‘pig, piggy, you’ve been eating too much.’ Then I went to hearing that from my coach.”_
> 
> _“Your partner.”_
> 
> _“Victor [Nikiforov], yes. He wasn’t yet. I don’t…. I can’t keep that against him. He was my coach. That’s what he is there to do. By then I already knew it to be true, I was piggy, but that was just part of it being final. Acknowledging it and knowing that it was something that had to be curbed. At the time I couldn’t step away from that and see that it was just as unhealthy as the the behavior that led me there. I hated myself. And it showed. I wasn’t taking care of myself. And Victor was strict, but he was doing for me what I couldn’t do for myself at the time and saying - you know, instead of me saying, ‘you don’t deserve to skate’, it was him saying, ‘you won’t skate” and drawing that line, putting that challenge there for me to take and getting me on task to complete it. To skate again. To prove the both of us wrong.”_
> 
> _“Mentally that sounds very brutal.”_
> 
> _“It was difficult. It still is. I think it was what I needed, though. He knew I could do better and he convinced me of that, too.”_
> 
> _I ask him to describe the training (see a similar breakdown of Katsuki’s training regimen in this chart here →) and he makes a pained face. “That actually would be what I would describe as brutal. It’s not discussed a lot publically but there are high standards. Dangerous standards. Even for those of us that aren’t being tossed about on the ice. My breakfast daily was of toast - dry - and usually water. Or… or a hot coffee with a packet of sugar substitute. But no toast. Lunch? Miso soup. Maybe half a cup. I could relax at dinner and have a salad with a cream dressing. On top of that was a run to the rink and a run back home, sometimes three or four times a day. And that was before I could even think of spending so many hours practicing on ice. There was none of that! It was just working out, working out, working out. That was my new job. Yuuri Katsuki, professional work-outer. Working-outer. Whatever. I dropped the extra weight in the time it took Victor to train up Yuri Plisetsky on his Eros routine, but wow. It was bad. I have stretch marks! Red, angry ones! I should be known as the Tiger of Japan. Another counterpart to Plisetsky.”_
> 
> _“Do you feel better? Mentally? Physically or emotionally?”_
> 
> _“A little. But now there’s a whole new set of things I am un-learning. Trying to ease myself into a more mindful balance. Be kinder to myself and to ask the same of others.”_
> 
> _“And your relationship? How is that?”_
> 
> _“We are learning and unlearning with that, as well. It was… worth the push and pull, I think. It’s worth the effort. It’s worth being mad and being sad but still being able to hear at the end of the day that I’m loved regardless. And I am worth loving. I’m worth all the hard work and management. Victor sees that and acknowledges that. And tells me that I need to do the same of myself.”_
> 
> _“Is it officially announced, can we congratulate you on your engagement?”_
> 
> _“You can, yes,” he tells me, and it gets a wide, beaming smile from him. “Thank you, we’re very excited. It’s appreciated.”_
> 
> _I ask if there are any special wedding plans yet as the photography crew lets us know that they’re ready for his shoot._
> 
> _“I suggested this little chapel in the Mediterranean. It’s on the top of a hill.”_

* * *

Victor nearly dropped the magazine into the hot spring, and yet nearly did it again when following the centerfold was six pages of photos the both of them - Yuuri mirroring each of his own poses, and untouched for the most part; his own scars and bruises were visible, and faintly in the lighting he could even make out some of the stretchmarks his partner had been so worried about. This was a meticulously crafted shoot and a terrible, emotional surprise, and he pored over them until he was interrupted by the sound of the door sliding open. He braced himself for it to be other guests of the onsen, trying to compose himself as he was sure that he looked an awful hot mess, but it was only Yuuri calling for him. The younger man wasn’t there to sit in the spring with him. He was still in his street clothes and sat down on a rock near Victor, his house slippers dangling over the steaming pool. “Tempura for dinner, Victor, lots of veggies and-- is that the magazine?? Is that us? You read- did you read it?”

“So. I was wrong. Who is going to expect you in The Body Issue, I asked. Me. I was. ...You’re much kinder to me than I think you should be.”

Yuuri stared at him silently, and then he said, “Well. You’re not supposed to lie in interviews.”

“Skopelos, though?”

“It was my idea, remember? One hundred percent.” He smiled.


End file.
